Brains, Brawn, Beauty and Rumsfeld
by Lampito
Summary: If one brother's good, two as a team must be even better. Like the Doublemint twins said, 'Double the fun,' right? For a given definition of 'fun'. The word 'idjit' will be used, oh yes... now COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not mine, I just traumatise them, splatter them with chocolate and let the Denizens do the rest...

**TITLE:** Brains, Brawn, Beauty and Rumsfeld.

**SUMMARY:** If one brother is good, two as a team must be even better. 'Double the fun', as the Doublemint twins said, right? For a given definition of 'fun'. The word 'idjit' will be used, oh yes... what became of Patch's puppies, after 'Best of Breed'. The story picks up a couple of months after the end of 'Best of Breed'.

**RATING:** T (Until such time as Dean Winchester is reincarnated as a Puritan).

**BLAME:** The blame for this one lies with the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In who wanted to know what happened to Patch's puppies at the end of 'Best of Breed'. The story picks up a couple of months after that, when Patch's litter is nine weeks old. I know what happened to them, but I wasn't keen to write it, because, well, you'll see.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Denariel, Guardian of Companions, sighed.

She loved her assignment. She did. She was probably one of the lowest ranked angels in the Host, but she didn't care. She regarded it as a privilege and a pleasure to act as caretaker to the souls of beloved companion animals while they waited for their humans to collect them. Companion animals were, in her opinion, some of her Father's most wonderful creations. She loved them all. Every single one.

Even Miss Molly, the ferret, who smelled sort of... intense. And Alphonse, the skunk, who thought he was a cat. And also smelled quite... pungent. Even Madame Belle de la Fluff, the Persian cat who was wont to go missing, and would inevitably turn up sitting on Father's throne. (Amondiel, one of the Seraphim, had taken quite a liking to Madame Belle, and would usually sneak her back before notification through official channels arrived in the form of a curt Memo from Danael in Reception). Yes, she even loved the ones she thought of, in particularly trying moments, as the 'high maintentance souls'...

She was having one of those moments right now.

Jimi the Hellhound had been a big, happy, boisterous boy from the day he'd arrived. Fra Francis of Assisi was cheerfully tireless in his efforts to keep the dog out of mischief, but from time to time, Jimi would find hi-jinks to get up to. For instance, the unfortunate incident in which he turned up chewing on a large, ornate hammer. That had resulted in one of Danael's disapproving Minutes, emphasising the importance of Denariel keeping control of her charges, and maintaining good relations between pantheons, and finished with a demand for a report. (Actually, Thor had been very good about it; he was apparently a dog person, because he'd ruffled Jimi's ears, and laughed. He'd also slapped Denariel's bottom and invited her to share a tankard with him sometime, but she had politely declined).

Then one of Jimi's half-Hellhound whelps had turned up, Joni, and she had turned out to be another handful. Only sneakier. When she'd found Joni and her sire using Osiris's staff as a tug toy, the elder Egyptian god had been distinctly displeased. (Osiris was more of a cat person – he had in fact offered to adopt Madame Belle, on the grounds that she was probably a reincarnated Egyptian goddess. Madame Belle had certainly agreed with is opinion.) The Minute from Reception had been quite abrupt – Danael had had to deploy her most charming and diplomatic efforts to smooth ruffled feathers, and had insisted that Denariel write a scroll of profuse apology.

She was working on that apology when a messenger cherub arrived with the paperwork for her latest arrivals. She pushed the parchment aside, and took the heap of files, flicking through them.

A name caught her eye, and she could not prevent herself from letting out a groan. She sighed, then chastised herself, put on her most welcoming smile, and went to meet her most recently arrived charges.

He sat, front and centre, grinning at her. In death, his muzzle was no longer grey, and his eyes danced and sparkled happily. He was the spitting image of his father, if somewhat larger.

And he wore a string of human skulls around his neck.

"Oh, Father," she sighed, "Give me strength..."

By the time Denariel completed her inductions, the culprit was having a wonderful game of tug-of-war with his sire and his litter-sister, using the purloined skulls. She called Fra Francis, begging his assistance, then retrieved the illicit toy, and sent the dogs on their way to play Fetch with Francis's halo.

She spent some time after that finishing her letter to Osiris, and writing a report to Reception. Then, deciding that she might as well as get a head start on the next matter, she took a fresh piece of parchment, and began her next apology.

_**To: **_

_**The **__**Mother **__**of **__**Darkness, **__**Destroyer **__**and **__**Redeemer **__**of **__**the **__**Universe,**_

_Most __Venerated __Kali-Ma, __Honoured Feminine __Aspect __of __Lord __Shiva,_

_Please __accept __my __most __profound __and __sincere __apologies __for __the __recent __theft __by __one __of __my __charges __of __your __girdle __of __skulls. __I __have __inspected __it, __and __believe i__t__ to __be __undamaged. __I __will __of __course __arrange __to __meet __any __and __all __costs __associated __with __any __required __cleaning..._


	2. Chapter 1

Well, look what hopped out of the dishwasher when nobody was looking, it's the plot bunny from BBB&R...

A number of Denizens have pestered me - yes, pestered, needled, nagged and harrassed, the depraved individuals - to get on with the follow-up story of Jimi Junior's puppies. Everybody loves puppies. Everybody wants puppies. Anyway, this bunny turned tail and bolted after dictating a single Prologue chapter, and I've been waiting to spot it again. It stuck its head over the parapet (or out from behind the chopping board, anyway), and might give us something approaching a storylet.

So, as outlined in the previous chapter, this takes place after the events of 'Best of Breed': Dean has turned 'the new 30', Jimi is 8 now, and Jimi's pups, whelped by Patch the Frankendog, are about three months old.

We resume the tale, and hope that the bunny will pop out and speak up again soon.

* * *

><p>ETA: Ooooh how excitement! As I'm writing this we just had an earth tremor! The couch wobbled, and I haven't had anything to drink at all! (So much for dogs' supersensitivity to This Sort Of Thing: my two just looked up, yawned, and went back to sleep.) Although I suppose it could just be fanfics making the earth move, I'll have to watch the news sites to see..<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

_Bobby had decided that John Winchester was an asshole. He put his own quest for revenge before his boys, which in Bobby's opinion made him a selfish asshole. He showed up at any time, unannounced, with two small boys needing watching, which made him an arrogant asshole. And he knew that Bobby was utterly unable to resist his munchkins, which made him a manipulative asshole._

_What he really wanted to do was put a load of rock salt into John Frigging Winchester._

_What he actually did, when baby Sammy came toddling towards him, chubby arms held out, gurgling "Ungle Bumbee!" while his big brother hovered protectively, was crouch down and open his arms for the giggling toddler to run into them, then grab them both up and spin around with the two laughing children clinging to him and shrieking in delight. _

_And so it was that he found himself with two small and slightly sticky children sitting on him, while he read to them from a decidedly peculiar children's book._

"_See Sammy read," he read aloud, "Read, Sammy, read!"_

_He turned the page._

"_Look look look!" he read, "Dean can drive! Drive, Dean, drive!"_

_The boys cuddled into him, and sighed._

"_See the pretty girls," the story continued. "See Dean watch the pretty girls."_

_The next page was unexpected._

"_They are busty Asian beauties," proclaimed the text beneath a page that did not belong in a children's book. He hurried to the next page._

"_See Dean engage the pretty girls in beautiful, natural acts," he stumbled. He looked down; thankfully both boys were drowsing against him. Dean was drooling slightly, leaving a damp patch on his shirt. _

_Bobby shut the dreadful book, and tried to get up, but it was difficult to move with two boys on him. "Get off! Get off!" he urged them. They just grinned at him. "Get off!" he insisted. It was suddenly uncomfortably warm – those two kids were producing a lot of heat..._

"Get off!"

Bobby sat up in bed, slapping at the spot where his shirt was smouldering. A happy furry face grinned up at him.

"Rumsfeld!" he barked, startled, "What the hell do you think you're doin'?"

The puppy jumped back into his lap, and climbed up his shirt to kiss his nose.

"You peed on my shirt!" he glared accusingly, slapping at the damp yet smouldering patch of shirt again. "You could have set me on fire! God's tits, dog, don't do that to a body!"

Rumsfeld regarded Bobby seriously for a moment, then broke into a puppy grin, and went back for another full frontal nose-kissing assault.

Bobby sighed. The pup had been deploying ruthless adoration with extreme prejudice since he was just a few days old. Technically the dogs weren't allowed up the stairs, they all knew that, but when Patch's pups had discovered the walk-through-solid-doors thing a couple of weeks ago, a talent they'd inherited from their daddy, the Winchesters' Jimi Junior, Rumsfeld had begun joining him in bed after dark from time to time.

These were, unfortunately, occasions of much excitement for the pup. Excited puppies of any sort were bad enough; they had a tendency to pee. Excited three-quarter-Hellhound pups were worse; when they peed in excitement, they tended to set things on fire.

"If The Almighty had intended dogs to live inside, He would have arranged for them to be whelped wearin' carpet slippers," Bobby frowned at the pup. Rumsfeld grinned doggily, and solicited more pats. "Idjit animal," he rumbled, knowing when he was beaten.

Downstairs, he shooed Rumsfeld outdoors, and eyed the refrigerator suspiciously. Opening the door, he scouted out the packet on the top shelf...

Two rashers of bacon were missing from the packet he'd carefully counted the night before.

And he had no idea how it was happening.

At first he'd thought he was just getting forgetful about how much bacon he had left. Then, he'd started counting slices carefully, and checking every morning. Every couple of days, two rashers went missing. He'd suspected the pups, of course – their daddy Jimi was in the habit of occasionally just poking his head right through the refrigerator door to help himself to bacon, and three of them discovered the straight-through-solid-objects thing about the same time he thought the absconding bacon thing started. So, he'd moved the bacon to the topmost shelf. That top shelf was at least four feet off the floor. They were only three months old; there was no way a Rottweiler-shaped puppy of that age could get to the top shelf.

It went untouched for nearly a week, then the regular rasher removals resumed.

It was one of life's mysteries.

Bobby was a Hunter. Hunters did not like mysteries.

He made breakfast for the puppies, and headed outside, Rumsfeld trotting happily at his ankles and sniffing up at the dish.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby had had dogs all his life, but he had never seen anything like Patch, the bitch who'd whelped Jimi's pups. Well, technically, _nobody_ had.

There had never been a dog like Patch before, put together by a vet with evil intentions from pieces of a couple of dozen dogs. She had merely been an experiment, a trial run before he constructed a ferocious mortal canine vessel for a Hellhound he hoped to control, but thankfully Team Free Will had been on hand to stop that. Patch (referred to affectionately by Dean as 'Frankendog') had helped.

They didn't stop the Hellhound from answering the summons though, and when she did, she took Patch as her vessel, and left behind the litter of pups that Jimi had sired when he was barely out of puppyhood himself...

Bobby grinned. That was a long time ago. Jimi was now a grizzled veteran, technically 'geriatric' for such a large dog, and although age was slowing him a little and one of his eyes was clouding with age, he was still a savage and ruthless Hunter. His puppies, three-quarters Hellhound, would hopefully follow in his pawsteps.

Although looking at them now, he had trouble seeing it.

Dean had named them when they were only a couple of days old: Lars, Lemmy, Lita, and Rumsfeld. Rumsfeld had gravitated to Bobby before his eyes opened, but it was time – past time, really – for the others to choose their Hunters. Problem was, they were being picky little bastards.

Lars was pushy, noisy and cocky, and despite his small size had a very assertive opinion of his own importance. Lemmy was a big boy for his age, as Jimi had been, a cheerful and boisterous pup, but, well, he wasn't going to be admitted to any canine version of Mensa in a hurry - his large, floppy ears made him look perpetually confused. They bickered and wrestled constantly. Lita was the spitting image of Jimi's sister, her aunt Joni: fine-boned, with a feminine face, and a preference for keeping her own company.

When he'd put the word out that he had another litter ready to find their Hunters, he'd had plenty of interest – word of the Winchesters' dog's prowess in the Hunt had got around. He'd had visits from Hunters who'd had dogs, whom he trusted, but the end result had been the same each time: Lars and Lemmy came rushing over for pats and play, while Lita was well-behaved but aloof, but they showed no interest in any of the Hunters they met.

They were driving Bobby nuts.

And the little asshats were stealing his bacon. He knew it. He just couldn't work out how. And_ that_ was driving him nuts, too.

Rumsfeld was lounging with his ageing aunt Janis, Lars and Lemmy were wrangling over a well-loved chew toy, and Lita was gazing off into the distance with her nose in the air, as he approached. They all broke off and came rushing towards him, yapping happily.

"Hold on, ya idjits," he grumped good-naturedly at them, as they wagged their tails and eyed the dish he held keenly. He put breakfast down and watched as they attacked it with gusto, their eyes swirling with the red of glowing coals.

Lars yipped in protest as Lemmy walked over him to get at a remaining smear of food, while Lita licked crumbs from Rumsfeld's whiskers. Bobby smiled, and shook his head. Brains, Brawn, Beauty... and Rumsfeld. He decided to bring the camera out later to take more pictures. They really were adorable, and they were growing so fast. It was true, he thought, that The Almighty made puppies and human babies irresistibly cute for a reason, because if they weren't so adorable, nobody in their right mind would ever want one...

He headed back to the house, and regarded his refrigerator thoughtfully. He went out to one of his sheds, searched through a box of electronic items, and triumphantly plucked out a motion sensor.

"This'll catch those little idjits out," he cackled to himself as he duct-taped it to the interior of the refrigerator, rigging it to an electric bell. Any puppies trying to gain unauthorised access after dark would set off a mighty alarming alarm.

He headed back outside with his camera and started taking pictures – Lemmy and Lars were track some hapless rodent through the undergrowth whilst Lita dug determinedly at an interesting beetle burrow, all looking adorably photogenic – when his cell rang. It was Sam. With news that Bobby always knew he'd get one day, but he still found himself unprepared.

His heart dropped as the younger Winchester explained why they were headed back to Singer Salvage.

"Uh huh. Okay, I'll get it ready. You look after your brother, ya idjit," he sighed sadly.

He made his way over to where Janis lounged on her favourite sunbed, the rusting truck hood she now shared with Rumsfeld. The wooden crate by the front fender acted as a necessary step for his tiny legs, and her faltering old ones. Her clouding eyes gazed up at him adoringly as he patted her grizzled head.

"Looks like it's just you now, old woman," he told her, "Your brother Jimi has..."

Jimi had left his matter, and gone to Wait. Knowing that he had his father and his sister to keep him company didn't make it any easier.

With a heavy heart, Bobby went to start work on the pyre.

* * *

><p>Oh noes! Poor Jimi. Will Dean blub like a toddler, or be stoically emotionally constipated about it? Does any other bloke on the planet look quite as pretty as Dean when he cries?<p>

Reviews* are Adorable Puppies Gambolling With You On The Carpet Of Life!

*If you already reviewed this story's second installment six months ago, back when it was a grovelling apology for putting it into indefinite cryostorage, you won't be able to review it again while you're logged in. However, I'm such a review addict that I accept anonymous reviews, so all you have to do is log out, and you can review to your heart's content. Review early, review often, and review without mercy! (smarm smarm smarm)


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Patch was watching her pups rough-house around her when the whisper in the breeze came to her. She would miss him, yes, but dogs do not feel sadness the way Uprights do; all living things leave their matter. It is the way of things, and they know it.

The pups were three months old, past ready to leave her den, but until they did, they still liked to sleep with her sometimes. However, their games did sometimes try her patience...

_Enough!_ she snapped, as the game took in the end of her tail. _It is time to sleep! Sleep, or den elsewhere!_

_I submit,_ whined each pup, quieting. Their sire-sister Janis panted her amusement as they obediently flopped down beside their dam. One of the pups, who had chosen her Keeper when he was just a few days old, lounged with his aunt. He had chosen his Alpha, and was separating from his litter, as was the way of things.

_You are old enough to choose your Hunters_, she chided them gently, licking fondly at the largest male, who accepted the attention without complaint, lest he annoy her again.

_When?_ The female pup demanded, _I would leave. My Hunter has not come!_

_When the time is right,_ Patch reassured the pup, _You will find your Hunters and choose them._

_We will grow, and we will Hunt! _yipped one of the male pups.

_We are strong and happy! We will Hunt! _echoed his brother, soliciting a wrestling match.

The curl of Patch's lip brought their play to a halt. _You will choose your Hunters,_ she began,and they stilled to listen as they had done since they had been den-bound whelps nursing blindly at her flank,_ And you will be Hunters' dogs. For there was a Beast of the Blood, the Blood of the Pit, and he was called to the Hunt. He was called by the Righteous Man and the Wise Man, to join their Pack. He spent his life in the Hunt, for that is the way of things for a Hunter's dog, but he took a bitch, and she whelped his pups, two bitch-pups and a dog-pup. That dog-pup was your sire, who gave his Blood to your line before he left his matter. He made you Hunters' dogs. You will choose your Hunters. You will be bold, and loyal, and fearless, and you will protect your Hunters, with your matter and your lives, for this is the way of things..._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"It'll flower again, now," said Bobby, forcing a smile onto his face after the pyre's ashes had been scattered around the gnarled old rosemary bush, "It has each time. It did for Rumsfeld, and for Joni. Never seen red flowers on rosemary before that."

"Given his eating habits, don't be surprised if it blooms fried wings," sniffled Sam, a wobbly smile of his own trying valiantly to stay in place. "Speaking of Rumsfeld..."

"They're all out with their mom and Auntie Janis," Bobby told him. "I really don't think he needs to see 'em runnin' around so soon."

"I guess not," Sam wiped at his eyes, "Not with the big one looking so much like... like..." he began to cry quietly again.

Bobby patted him consolingly on the shoulder. "Losin' a dog is like losin' a member of the family," he empathised.

"He was magnificent," Sam sighed, "Doc Woolley said his arthritis was getting worse, but you wouldn't have known it. It was a whole nest of 'em, and he tore into 'em like they were tissue paper. If Jimi hadn't been there, one of those damned bloodsuckers would've shot me, and taken Dean's head clean off. We're lucky he's just a bit concussed..."

"It's what Hunter's dogs do," Bobby told him firmly, "And it's how a Hunter's dog should go out, on the job. He was gettin' old for a Rottie, too – that's the sad truth about a dog that size. He would never have been happy retirin' and leavin' you two, and you know it. Remember old Kali? When you were a kid?"

"She saved Dean from a demon," Sam smiled a little. "Yeah, Jimi wouldn't've liked that."

"So, you mourn your dead, and you get on with worryin' about the living," gruffed Bobby, "That's life."

"I guess." A definite thump from the living room suggested that someone had fallen off the sofa. "He's taking in pretty hard," noted Sam.

"Understandable," mused Bobby. "Jimi chose him as his Alpha."

"It's probably the healthiest, closest to normal emotional reaction to a personal tragedy that Dean's ever had," Sam opined.

"And I should probably be flattered that he feels safe enough here in this house to drop the he-man act," Bobby added.

"I've been telling him forever that bottling things up is not a healthy was to deal with stuff," Sam went on.

"You're right," Bobby agreed, "It's normal and healthy to grieve over a loss like this."

"I should be celebrating the fact that he's finally allowing himself to deal with his feelings about something in a way that's not totally emotionally constipated, and is willing to talk," Sam said.

"It's a humbling vote of confidence in us that he's prepared to do it in front of us," nodded Bobby.

Another thump, suggestive of someone trying to get back onto the sofa and failing miserably, came from the living room.

"He's my big brother," Sam stated, "And he's been there for me from everything from skinned knees when I was a kid, to losing Jess. I should be in there for him."

"You guys are the closest things I have to family," Bobby said, "And I should get in there, and tell him it's all right to be heartbroken."

They stared at the door. The drawn-out swooshing suggested of a pile of books falling off something.

"After we've done that, can we put him in the panic room for the night?" asked Sam hopefully.

"Don't tempt me," sighed Bobby. "Come on."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Both Dean and Sam had spent many nights on Bobby's sofa, in various states of physical, psychological, pharmacological or morphological discombobulation, so that was nothing new.

Dean lay miserably, wrapped in Jimi's blanket, cuddling a bottle of JD in one arm and Oinker Stoinker the squeaky blue pig in the other. A large, fat tear rolled down the side of his nose, and he wiped absently at it.

"Jimi's dead, Bobby," he announced tearfully, "Jimi's gone. He's gone, he's history, he's rosemary fertiliser."

"I know, son," Bobby answered gently, frowning at the nearly empty bottle. "Now, Sam tells me you got a fair whack on the head, so maybe you should just lay off the booze for now..."

"Nooooo!" wailed Dean, "Jimi found this for me!"

"He did," nodded Sam, "When we went to scout out the squat where the vampires were holed up, Jimi went digging around it, and found a full bottle." He smiled through his own tears. "Dean smiled so hard I thought the top of his head would fall off."

"He was a remarkable dog," said Bobby, patting Dean's shoulder, "And we'll all miss him terribly."

"I miss him terribly!" cried Dean, waving the bottle for emphasis before taking another drink.

"Of course you do," Bobby soothed, "And when you lose a dog, it's okay, it's normal, it's healthy to be really sad..."

"I'm really sad!" Dean declared.

"Uh-huh, but just because you're really sad, gettin' a skinful when you might have a head injury is a bad idea."

"At least eat something, bro," pleaded Sam, "He's been too upset to eat, Bobby, if he's going to drink, do you have anything he could eat with it, at least?"

"Yeah, sure," Bobby smiled reassuringly, "I got some stuff in the refrigerator I can heat up right away, I got some chilli, and I got some wings..."

"Jimi loved wiiiiiiings!" howled Dean, pulling the blanket around himself and hiccupping.

"Er, yeah, he sure did," Bobby recalled, "So, I can heat something up, or make you a bacon sandwich, maybe..."

"Jimi loved bacoooooon!" wailed Dean, wiping his nose on the blanket. He lost his grip on Oinker Stoinker, grabbed for the toy as it fell, and, because he was rolled up in the blanket and sloshing with JD, fell off the sofa again. He landed on the toy, which let out a loud honk.

"Jimi loved Oinker Stoinkerrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" Dean erupted into fresh gales of tears.

Sam and Bobby helped him back onto the sofa, where he sat up, listed periously to starboard, and blew his nose on the blanket, sounding remarkably like Oinker Stoinker.

"Why don't you go and get cleaned up, son?" suggested Bobby gently, "You'll feel a bit better if you go upstairs and..."

"Jimi loved to go upstairs!" Dean moaned.

"Yeah, of course he did, he wanted to follow you," Bobby noted patiently. "Now, why don't you clean up, and maybe you'll be more comfortable in your bed..."

"Jimi loved to sleep on my beeeeeed!" Dean's distress knew no bounds.

"Bobby's right, bro," Sam sniffled, "We could both do with some rest. You got filthy when that asshole threw you into that old fireplace, and I know you're black and blue, and you have to be feeling really sore. You know what would help? If you have nice hot bath, that'll..."

"Jimi hated having a bath!" Dean sobbed. "I had to sit in there with him, and he had to have Oinker Stoinker, or he wouldn't get in the bath!"

"True, true," soothed Sam, "But it would make you feel a lot better. Relaxing, and good for your aches and pains."

Dean looked imploringly at his brother with a poignant, tear-streaked, very slightly cross-eyed face, and held out Oinker Stoinker.

Sam's eyes bugged. "Er, look, I know you're really upset, Dean," he said, "And I am too, we all are, but..."

Dean's bottom lip wobbled perilously.

"Dean," Sam tried to sound firm, "You are my brother, and I would do just about anything to help you feel better, but there are limits..."

Dean's breath started to hitch as his eyes filled with tears again.

"Dean," Sam tried not to glare too harshly, "I am NOT going to sit in the bath with you to keep you company! We're thirty years too old for that!"

"I just... I just want you to honk Oinker Stoinker for me," said Dean mournfully.

Somehow, Sam managed not to roll his eyes or huff out loud.

"Grief finds its way out in all sorts of ways, boy," Bobby reminded him with a nudge. "Healthy expression of feelings, remember?"

"Sure," Sam acquiesced, accepting the toy, "I can do that, I'll honk Oinker for you, in remembrance of Jimi."

"Thanks, Sam," said Dean as the tears spilled over, "You're the best baby bro a guy could have."

Bobby shook his head as Sam helped his inebriated brother up the stairs. As he put a jug of milk in the microwave to start brewing his secret weapon cocoa, he heard the water running. There were some thumps and some cusswords from upstairs, some brief bickering about the appropriate use of bath salts, but a stumbling splash eventually indicated that Dean had made his way into the bath.

Sam dutifully sat outside the bathroom door, honking on the blue pig.

"How you feeling, bro?" he called through the door.

"Like shit," mumbled Dean. "Jimi's gone, I'm bruised all over, and I've run out of booze."

"Well, just try to relax and float," replied Sam, "And don't drown in there."

It was quiet for a few minutes. Then...

"Sam? _*hic!*_"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Sing the song for me."

"What?"

"Sing the song for me?"

"Dean..."

"Please, Sam, like we did for Jimi."

"Dean..."

"Pleeeeeeeease?"

"Oh, all right...

Oinker Stoinker, you're the one, _whunk-whunk  
><em>You make bathtime lots of fun, _whonk-honk  
><em>Oinker Stoinker I'm awfully fond of you..."

Bobby smiled to himself, and when he heard them argue their way to bed, he headed upstairs with the cocoa, telling them "It's good for whatever ails ya, from bruises to bereavement to brewing hangover." It was a testament to how subdued Dean was feeling that he accepted the drink without query. And since neither of them asked, Bobby didn't feel obliged to tell them that there might be just a little extra herbal something in there to help them on their way to the land of Nod...

He headed back downstairs to check the wards and the salt lines before retiring, then pulled a bottle of very good single malt from one of his stashes. He poured himself a drink, and raised it to Jimi.

"Thank you," he whispered, "For keeping my boys alive. You did a fine job, and you're a good boy."

* * *

><p>Fanfic reviews sent my way,<br>Fanfic reviews make my day,  
>Fanfic reviews I'm awfully fond of them,<p>

Fanfic reviews, joy and glee,  
>When I get them I go squee,<br>Fanfic reviews, each one is a wonderful gem.

Reviews are the a) Healing Cup Of Tea, b) Consoling Cuddles or c) Soothing Bath With The Winchester Of Your Choice in response to the Tragedies That Beset Us During Life!


	4. Chapter 3

C'mon, you give me reviews, and I'll give you... puppies!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

There was no 'eureka' moment, just certainty. He woke in the night, knowing that something important had happened.

He nudged and nipped at his brother until the larger pup woke.

Beside him, his brother stirred, then yawned and blinked at him sleepily. _What? Intruder? Threat?_

_They are here! _The smaller pup circled in excitement.

His larger brother sat up, and turned his nose to the air, and his tail began to wag.

_This way!_ The smaller pup led his brother out of the kennel, and towards the house. The larger pup boosted his litter-mate up the first stair, then the smaller pup led the way to the door. He walked straight through.

The older floppy-eared pup walked into the wood, then stared at it in good-natured bemusement. After a moment, his brother's head reappeared through the door. He grabbed his larger sibling by the scruff, and with his back legs scrabbling on the lino, pulled him through on the third try.

The larger pup gazed longingly at the refrigerator, but his sibling gave him a sharp nip on the neck to refocus his attention.

_Ow!_ The larger one yelped.

_This way! _demanded his brother. _They are here! They are..._

"Hey!" came the gruff voice. "Is that you little asshats in there?"

_Den-Alpha! _Yipped the floppy-eared pup in fright.

_Quiet! _Ordered the smaller one in a soft whuff, _Quiet, and concealment! _He pulled his whining brother under the table, put his head over the larger pup's back, and thought very hard about not being noticed...

"I heard you," grumbled their dam's Alpha, their Den-Alpha, as the light suddenly snapped on, "So if you little idjits are after my bacon again, you can..." his voice trailed off as he looked around, puzzled.

The kitchen was empty.

"Great," he muttered to himself, "Now I'm gettin' bacon-induced paranoia. Just great."

Before he left, he checked the bacon in the refrigerator, glared around the kitchen, then turned off the light.

The pups waited until they heard him go upstairs, and settle for sleep.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **...oooooOOOOOooooo... **...oooooOOOOOooooo...******

They weren't supposed to go up the stairs. Their Den-Alpha had taught them that. But now, they made their way upwards. The stairs were steeper and more numerous than those of the porch. A couple of times, the larger pup had to pause, and nudge his brother's rear to help him.

The door they made their way to was shut.

Once more, the smaller pup made his way straight through it, but the larger one hit solid wood.

_Hurry! _His brother called to him eagerly, _Hurry! They are here!_

Keen to join his brother, the larger pup whined, then put his head down, and charged at the door.

He hit it again.

But this time, the wood splintered and gave way.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **...oooooOOOOOooooo... **...oooooOOOOOooooo...******

The sound of cracking timber pulled Bobby from sleep. He was on his feet and out the door immediately, gun in hand, moving along the hall as silently as a cat.

He blinked when he saw the small, low, and distinctly puppy-shaped hole in the door of the room in which the Winchesters slept.

He felt the smile break out on his face as he pushed open the door and took in the scene in the moonlight.

Lemmy had made his way onto Dean's bed, and was lying contentedly against the sleeping Hunter. One of his paws rested possessively on Oinker Stoinker. Dean's face was peaceful. Lemmy nosed his head under a hand and Dean stirred in his sleep, petting the floppy ears, then settled again as the pup humphed in contentment. The two of them began to snore gently.

Sam was staring groggily at Lars, who sat on his chest, regarding him seriously, then kissed his nose lavishly.

"About damned time, ya little idjits," Bobby muttered to himself.

"B'bby," Sam slurred in some confusion, "'Ere's sa puppy onnn me. 'Ere's sa puppy onnnn me, B'bby."

"I can see that, son," Bobby chuckled, picking up the pup and putting it beside Sam, "I'm afeared you've been chosen."

Sam's face wrinkled in thought. " 'M notta 'lowed t' havva dog," he said mournfully, "Dad won' lemme havva dog..."

"I don't think you get a choice about this one," Bobby smiled, "I think you'll find you're stuck with him." That made Sam smile in a slightly cross-eyed fashion. "Why don't you both go back to sleep." It was a good match; both Sam and Lars were snugglers.

Bobby headed back to bed, shaking his head. He had been quietly hopeful that one of the pups would choose the Winchesters – his money had been on Lemmy, who was the image of their daddy, and a walking poster boy for the phrase 'ya big galoot', but, God's tits, _two_ of them? He didn't want to be around to hear what Dean would say about that (experience had shown that all the pups had inherited their daddy's lavender-scented flatulence). Still, it wouldn't make any difference; if Sam's Sammy Eyes didn't bring his big brother around, the pup's Sammy Eyes would do it. Lars might've been the runt, but he was already smart, rat-cunning, and a manipulative little bastard when it suited him.

Brothers teaming up for the Hunt. He had a feeling that it would work out.

As he climbed into his own bed, and realised that a small furry body had beaten him to it.

He glared down at Rumsfeld. "I don't hold with dogs on the furniture," he intoned sternly, "Especially if they have nocturnal incendiary tendencies."

Rumsfeld gazed up at him adoringly.

Bobby let him stay, seeing as his brothers had found their Hunters. It was a special occasion, after all.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Adorable Puppy Cuddles On The Bed Of Life! (Without the flatulence; one of mine is, as I type, excreting a stench so sulphurous it would make Crowley shriek for mercy).<p>

Not sure if this one will go anywhere further; I'll have to see what the bunny thinks.


	5. Chapter 4

**CAUTION: **Schmoop ahead, for the Denizens who wanted some more PUPPIES! Possibly inspired by watching some puppies pick their people today after obedience. The hilarious bit was that the person who bred them knows the people quite well, and was able to predict with 100% accuracy which pups would chose which people...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

The sun was up by the time Sam yawned, stretched and opened his eyes. His nose twitched at a drifting waft of lavender scent, and he almost smiled in anticipation of the way his big brother would wake up yelling at Jimi and threaten to shove a cork up his ass, when reality crashed back, and he felt his heart lurch again. Jimi was gone.

His eyes started to fill as he sat up, and looked down into the pair of big brown eyes gazing up at him.

I must be dreaming, he thought sadly, as the small pup whuffed happily and began to wag its tail. He reached down to pat the fluffy head, and was kissed enthusiastically. But it was a good dream, because the little guy was just a ball of cute, so he'd enjoy it while it lasted...

"Ow!" A set of puppy teeth nipped at his hand. It felt real. It felt incredibly real.

As he stared in disbelief, the pup launched itself at him in a frenzy of happy affection. Sam couldn't help but smile – the little animal's cheerfulness was contagious.

"This is real," he grinned, as the pup wagged his tail, "You're real. You're Lars, aren't you?"

The pup suddenly broke off, dialled the big brown eyes up to eleven, and rolled over.

"That animal is so manipulative, he could give the average demon a run for its money," came the gruff voice from the doorway, where Bobby stood grinning.

"Hey Bobby," Sam said, rubbing the proffered belly while the pup squirmed in delight, "What's this little guy doing up here? I thought they weren't allowed up the stairs... is that Rumsfeld?" A small cheeky face peeked around Bobby's leg.

"He's decided that I'm more accommodatin' that Auntie Janis," Bobby rolled his eyes, "And seein' as it's such a special occasion, I decided to let him stay last night."

"Special occasion?" echoed Sam, getting out of bed.

"Oh yeah," Bobby nodded, "His idjit brothers have finally chosen their Hunters. And not before time, might I add," he bent a stern eye on Lars, who stared right back unabashed.

Sam looked puzzled. ""So... if he's chosen his Hunter," he indicated Lars, "What's he doing up here with me?"

Bobby sighed in a pained way. "Sam," he said finally, "For an educated guy, you can be kinda dumb sometimes, you know that?"

The meaning of the comment slowly dawned on Sam. "You mean..." he looked back to Lars, who gazed up at him again with adoring eyes. "But..."

"Nrrrrrrrng," came the inarticulate noise from Dean's bed.

Bobby gasped theatrically. "It lives!" he intoned. "Come on, Sleepin' Beauty, time to rise and shine. Or rise, at least - after you finished a bottle by yourself last night, I'm guessin' you'll shine about as much as a polished turd."

"Nrrrrrrrnglf," went Dean, his head emerging from the bedding. "Who glued my eyes shut?"

"How are you feeling, Dean?" asked Sam.

Dean pried one eye open a fraction. "My back aches, my hair hurts, and I don't love Jesus," he replied, collapsing back to the pillow. "Nrrrrrngl. Coffee, somebody, in the name of humanity, bring me coff..." His eyes flew open and he gasped.

"Dean?" asked Sam anxiously, "What's wrong?"

"There's something in the bed with me!" Dean hissed furiously, "I felt something down there move!"

Bobby chuckled.

"I'm serious!" snapped Dean, "There is something in here with me! It's moving, it's... oh God, oh God, it's standing on me!" he squeaked, "It's standing on me, there's something in my bed and it's ohGodohGodohGod AAAAAAAAARGH IT'S TASTING MEEEEEEE..."

Lemmy burst from beneath the covers to greet his newly chosen Alpha properly, that is, with a lot of tail wagging, nose kissing, and slobber.

Dean stared cross-eyed at the pup in utter bemusement. "Hnghlf?" was all he could manage.

"Bobby, that's Lemmy," observed Sam, "What's he doing in Dean's bed?"

"Bobby," said Dean in a bewildered tone, "Bobby, there's a puppy in my bed."

"Situational awareness," nodded Bobby, "Very good, Dean, that's an important skill for a Hunter."

"But.. but..." Dean broke off and his eyes bugged. A small wisp of smoke drifted out from the covers, then...

"AAAAAAAAARGH!"

Sam and Bobby watched him sprint for the bathroom. Lemmy jumped from the bed, and bounded after him.

"At least his reflexes are still workin'," Bobby shrugged.

"Well, he's had practice," Sam pointed out, "That isn't the first time he's had his shorts set on fire by an excited Hellpuppy."

"I hate you both," Dean called over the sound of running water.

"Sun's well up, you ladies have slept in long enough," decided Bobby, "Bring 'em downstairs for breakfast when they're ready."

Sam looked confused. "How do we tell when a puppy is ready for breakfast?" he asked, "Aren't they ready to eat any time?"

Bobby's reply drifted back up the stairs.

"I wasn't talkin' to the humans."

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"This isn't necessarily a healthy thing," Sam argued after breakfast, "It's normal and beneficial to have a period of grieving and adjustment when a beloved animal is lost, getting a new pet and acting like the old one has just been replaced is not a good way to deal with this."

"Nobody's replacin' Jimi, Sam," Bobby assured him, "You'll never replace him. You'll still miss him; a little bit of you will always miss him, but time will turn that to remembering with more fondness than sadness. Besides, these two little idjits have made their decisions."

"I don't know if Dean is ready for this," Sam worried, "I mean, Jimi chose him. Jimi was ours, but he was Dean's dog. He's gutted, Bobby, he's devastated, and he needs time..."

"Well, the furry band-aid seems to be helpin' with that," Bobby jerked a thumb towards the window. Outside, Dean, who had gone to fetch the pups' breakfast bowl, was engaged in a laughing tug-of-war with Lemmy over a piece of fraying rope. After a moment, Lars joined them, hauling on the ragged strands with his brother, until Dean lost his footing and fell to the ground, where they pounced on him. "You can grieve and love at the same time, boy. The two are so damned close to the same thing as don't make no nevermind."

"We couldn't have two of them, anyway," Sam remarked, just a little sadly, "Dean wouldn't agree to it. I mean, Lars is a great little guy, he's got a wonderful personality, I think he's pretty quick on the uptake, he'll take to training quickly..."

"He's a cocky little asshat who won't be told," humphed Bobby, "And to be honest, I won't be entirely sad to see the back of him, most of the time. There's always the chance that absence will make the heart grow fonder, but initially, I think it'll just be a damned relief. I just _know_ those idjits are stealin' my bacon."

"But that sort of self-confidence and capacity for independence is just what a Hunter's dog needs," Sam replied, "He'll make somebody a fantastic partner for the job."

Bobby shook his head, and chuckled. "You don't get it, do you? He's chosen _you_. You are labouring under the incorrect assumption that you get a choice."

There was the briefest suggestion of a ripple in the air that Sam had, through long practice, come to associate with a part-Hellhound dog walking through a door or a wall (or, on a couple of memorable occasions, a solid shower partition). Lars trotted across the floor to Sam, where he sat, looking up with impossibly large eyes.

"I'm sorry, little guy," Sam bent down to ruffle his ears, "But it just wouldn't... what have you got there?" He carefully took the small object from the pup's mouth and examined it.

It was Dean's wallet.

Lars gave him a happy yap, and a doggy grin, and put a paw on Sam's shin as the outraged cry of "Sonofabitch!" drifted in from the yard.

Sam burst out laughing. "That's quite a talent you got there," he conceded, bending down to scratch the pup's ears. The little dog gazed up at him; Sam realised that he recognized that expression – it was the exact same one that Jimi had worn, all those years ago, when he had first laid eyes on Dean and leaped into his arms.

_My Pack. My Alpha._

Sam felt something go warm and gooey inside him.

"Okay," said Sam slowly, "Okay, if we're gonna do this, and if Dean agrees, there are gonna be some ground rules."

Lars sat up and gazed keenly at Sam, a picture of alert attentiveness.

"Now, you're a working dog," Sam told him, "Your infernal and mortal lineages make you a working dog. You're not a lap dog, and you're not a pet, so you'd have to learn to behave like one."

Lars sat a little straighter, and whuffed.

"Okay," Sam went on, "So, the first things you gotta learn about, whoever takes you, are keeping your more... unusual talents under control. The firestarting pee thing, and the walk-through-walls thing, you gotta obey the laws of physics so you don't scare the civilians. You gotta learn to make everybody think you're just an ordinary dog. So, I would expect a high standard of behaviour..."

"Saaaaaam!" yelled Dean, banging his way in through the door, "Where is that little asshole?"

"Looking for something, bro?" asked Sam, smiling beatifically and holding out the wallet.

Dean snatched it, and snarled at the culprit. "You little bastard," he growled, "I should..."

With a frightened squeal, Lars shot under the table.

"Hey!" Sam glared at Dean with a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!). "Now look what you've done, you've scared the shit outta the little guy! Lars! Lars!" He called in a cheerful tone, "Come on out, buddy, he won't touch you..."

A small whimper emanated from under the table.

"You jerk," Sam huffed at Dean, dropping to his knees, "Come on, fella, I won't let him... Lars?" He peered carefully under the table and each chair. "Lars?" he called more desperately. "He's gone!" Sam yelped, "He's not there! He's run off! Nice going, Dean. Lars!"

"What? He's right under there," snorted Dean, bending to look, "I heard him... Lars?"

There was no puppy to be seen under the table.

"What's all the yelling about in here?" demanded Bobby, storming into the room.

"Dean scared Lars," accused Sam, "And now he's run away!"

"Well, he can't have gone far," Bobby reasoned, "He's probably done the through-the-wall thing. He was the first to work it out, he'll be back outside with his Mom."

"He was under there!" Dean insisted, as Sam started checking behind furniture, calling for the pup, "I heard him!"

As if on cue, they heard the whimper once more.

Frowning, Bobby bent down, and reached under the table. He straightened up with Lars in his arms.

"A fine thing it's comin' to when two young bucks like you can't see a pup," he humphed, putting the dog down. "That right there is domestic blindness at its very best."

"But .. how?" demanded Sam. "He wasn't there!"

"Well, he's back again now," Dean noted, "So we can make sure the little asshole understands that..."

As Dean reached for him, Lars squealed again, and...

Disappeared.

The three humans blinked in disbelief.

A moment later, Sam felt something bump insistently against his leg. Carefully, he bent down and felt a fluffy body under his hand. Lars rematerialised, glaring at Dean.

"Well, that's interestin'," shrugged Bobby. "And I don't just mean the way that dog can pull a bitchface."

Dean blinked hard again. "Am I suffering the after effects of being nearly decapitated by that vampire," he asked slowly, "Or did I just see that little asshole... turn invisible?"

"Did you do that?" Sam said to the pup, picking him up, "Did you turn invisible?" The pup gave him a happy grin, and climbed up his shirt to kiss his nose.

"Well, I guess it's another Hellhound blood talent," postulated Bobby, "Like the fire-setting pee, and the walk-through-walls. Hellhounds make themselves invisible to the living."

"Jimi never did that," Dean pointed out.

"Jimi was half-Hellhound," Bobby replied, "Don't forget, these guys are three-quarters Blood of the Pit. Could be something he's inherited from his real mom."

"I haven't seen Lemmy do that," Dean said, "I wonder if he will."

As he spoke, a loud yelping set up from the kitchen.

"Oh, not again," muttered Bobby, "Come on, give me a hand."

Lemmy was stuck half way through the door. As they entered the room, he turned a happy if somewhat confused grin to them. With some encouragement from Dean, and Lars hauling on his scruff, he managed to make it all the way through.

"You okay, fella?" Dean asked the pup. The lavish kisses he received were answer enough.

"He is makin' progress," Bobby told them, "At least now he sometimes makes it, rather than just bouncin' off the door."

"He left a hole in the one upstairs," Sam pointed out.

"He's just enthusiastic," Dean defended the pup, "And determined..."

"And bone-headed," Sam finished. "Seriously, those ears, why you didn't name him Dumbo I don't know."

"At least he's not a sneaky smartass midget," Dean shot back. "He even pulls bitchfaces like you, you know?"

"Hmmm, a bone-headed lunk and a smartass who's so sharp he could cut himself," chuckled Bobby, "I can't think why those two idjits would choose you two idjits."

There was a moment of silence broken only be the happy whuffing of two puppies.

"They have, haven't they," Dean finally said, a small doting smile creeping onto his face as he picked Lemmy up.

"Havin' your shorts set on fire, that probably constitutes gettin' married in some places," Bobby cackled.

Dean didn't miss the longing look that Sam and Lars exchanged. "They're a double act. If we take one, we take 'em both." He sighed melodramatically. "But I warn you, Francis, you keep that vanishing little thief out of my stuff, or you'll both end up riding in the trunk."

"Don't you listen to him," Sam crooned to Lars, "He's just jealous of your awesome brain power, and your ability to disappear."

"The invisible thing would explain why the motion sensor didn't trip," Bobby mused. His bacon-ometer had alarmed once or twice, but then fallen silent, while the bacon continued to disappear. "But how the hell he got to the top shelf of the refrigerator, it's got me beat."

"Bobby, are you sure it's one of them?" Dean asked dubiously.

"Of course I'm sure it's one o' them!" Bobby humphed, "Just the same as I knew that when you were seventeen it was you gettin' into my booze, and when Sam was fourteen it was him gettin' into my books. Just because I can't prove it, that doesn't mean I don't know."

"It can't be Lars," opined Dean dismissively, "He's a midget."

"He's just not as oversize as his sire was!" Sam was quick to say, "And anyway, if being short excluded anyone from the Hunt, you'd be in trouble..."

"I'm not short!"

"Yes you are. You're short. And bossy."

"If I'm short and bossy, why didn't the short and bossy pup pick me then, huh? It's no wonder that little smartass picked you. Nobody else would have him."

"Yeah, and Lemmy the mental giant only picked you because hanging around with you will make him look smarter."

"If you ladies are gonna swing your handbags at each other, take it outside," Bobby told them, frowning to try to cover his grin, "And take those bacon-stealing little idjits with you."

"It can't be Lemmy," Dean insisted, putting the pup down, "He's not that sneaky."

"And there's no hole in the refrigerator door," Sam added.

"Bitch," muttered Dean. "And bitch."

"Jerk, and jerk," huffed Sam.

"Out!" ordered Bobby.

He put on a pot of coffee and watched through the window as the Winchesters went about cleaning out the Impala. The two pups followed, more animated than he'd ever seen them, getting underfoot, nosing through everything, scrabbling to get into the back seat and, at one point, grabbing a plaid shirt between them and dragging it under the car while Sam yelled and squirmed after them, and Dean laughed himself almost sick. The almost palpable air of sadness that had been hanging around both his boys had thinned considerably.

His eye fell on the last photo of Jimi and the Winchesters that he'd put on the refrigerator, they greyed old muzzle grinning doggily with the puppylike boisterousness that he'd never grown out of, even as his ageing body had begun to fail him, and smiled.

"Right now, they're still sad because you're not here, old man," he told the grizzled old face, "But I think they're on the way to smilin' because you were." He paused. "And I think those two will do you proud."

He went to the living room and fetch Jimi's old blanket. It smelled of dog, old blood, and history. He took it to the laundry and put it into the machine to wash. The Winchesters were going to need it again, and the pups would no doubt find the lingering scent of their sire, their Pack, comforting.

A yelp from outside drew his attention. Dean was slapping at his smouldering shirt; apparently, a bit of rassling with the tug toy had become too exciting for young Lemmy.

Bobby shook his head, and went to get his camera. He was going to need some new pictures for the refrigerator.

And a new plan to keep his bacon safe, but that could wait.

* * *

><p>So, what's Lemmy's peculiar talent? And what is happening to the bacon? Tune in next chapter to find out!<p>

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Adorably Cheeky Puppy/Winchester Of Your Choice Rolling Over For A Tummy Rub On The Sofa Of Life!


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

By the time the rosemary shrub-tree bloomed blood red, six more rashers of bacon had gone missing. Dean told Bobby that he was simply experiencing a string of senior moments.

"Bacon doesn't just disappear," he reasoned.

"It does when you're here," grumped Bobby, "But at least I see you eatin' it."

"You're probably just losing count of how many rashers are left," Dean told him, "It's nothing to be ashamed of, probably to be expected at your age..."

"Whaddyamean, at my age?" demanded Bobby.

"You know, getting older," Dean elaborated helpfully, Your hair goes grey, less on your head and more in your ears and nose, you get a bit forgetful, start talking to yourself, get grumpy. Well, grumpier. Don't worry, we'll stop you before you get to the wear-your-shorts-on-your-head and hoarding cats stage..."

"I am not grumpy!" snapped Bobby. "And if I do occasionally talk to myself, it's because sometimes with you idjits around it's the only way I can get an intelligent conversation!"

"It does seem unlikely, Bobby," Sam said in a less provocative tone, "Lemmy can't reliably do the through-solid-objects thing – if it was him, there would be telltale earmarks in the butter, or something – and Lars is small for his age, even if he stood on his brother he couldn't reach it."

"Well then, smartass, where is it going?" demanded Bobby.

"Bacon fairies," replied Dean promptly.

"Bacon fairies?" echoed Sam dubiously.

"Bacon fairies," nodded Dean. "Has to be. We know they exist. They're obviously related to the pie fairies that steal my pie, and the beer fairies that steal beer, and the pizza fairies that sneak into the refrigerator and steal left-over pizza, and the snack fairies who always steal my Doritos after I fall asleep..."

"There are no such things as pie fairies," Sam rolled his eyes, "There's just big brothers who finish off pie in the middle of the night, and forget about it, and then yell about it the next day. The beer fairies are a demented figment of your brain when it's gently marinated in alcohol and you forget how many you've had and I clear the bottles away before you wake up again. The pizza fairy is actually me, because once a slice of pizza has started to get fuzzy it's time to throw it out, although if you had your way I wouldn't need to, because you'd cheerfully leave pizza until it was capable of crawling away by itself..."

"I always suspected you were some sort of fairy," Dean said suspiciously. "That doesn't explain the Doritos fairy, though."

"There isn't a Doritos fairy, Dean," Sam smiled, "There was just Jimi."

"What?" Dean yapped in disbelief. "No way!"

"Yes way," Sam went on, "He wasn't above helping himself to your leftovers. I could tell, because he'd always have crumbs in his whiskers afterwards." He tapped at his phone, then handed it to Dean.

It showed a brief clip of the elder Winchester snoring on a sofa, empty bottle dangling from one hand, while Jimi carefully climbed up next to him, and shoved his face into the bag of corn chips on Dean's lap. Dean smiled in his sleep, squirmed a little, then muttered something that might've been 'OoooohDaphne' or 'OoooohDanni,' while Jimi snuffled up the contents of the bag.

"Gah!" Dean threw the phone back. "Creepy pervy little brother! You're getting as bad as creepy pervy Cas."

"Jimi had a history of the occasional bacon theft, too, don't forget," Bobby put in, "But that was once he had his adult height. How these guys are doin' it, I got nothin'."

They debated the possibility of various wee folk who might have a predilection for pilfering smallgoods.

Then they considered the possibility that the refrigerator was possessed.

"It does make funny noises in the middle of the night."

"That's poltergeists, ya idjit."

Finally, they entertained, but quickly dismissed, the idea that some freak eddy in the fabric of the space-time continuum might've opened up.

"Does that mean that rashers of bacon are popping into existence on the other side of the galaxy? Can radiotelescopes detect bacon?"

"No, Dean, radiotelescopes detect interstellar radiation, not processed meat."

"Is there a Pigmeat Constellation somewhere? The Breakfast Nebula?"

"No, Dean."

"What about Pigs In Space? Piiiiiiiiiigs Iiiiiiiiiiiiin Spaaaaaaaaace!"

"Dean, that was the Muppets! They are NOT REAL. For the last time, there is no bacon in outer space!"

"Well, I never want to go there, then."

After the collapse of the cosmic breakfast theory, they realised they'd hit the bottom of the barrel.

"Well, let us know if you figure out who's stealing your strawberries, Captain Queeg," Dean said cheerfully as he headed for the yard with Lemmy bounding along behind him.

"He's got a hide, callin' me grumpy," griped Bobby, "That boy could make a saint grumpy. This aint grumpy, this is just me bein' my normally cheerful self. I'll have you know, I have not yet begun to grump."

"Maybe we could approach this like a job," reasoned Sam. "First thing to do is work out what you're dealing with. We have disappearing bacon, but no sightings. Perhaps we should stake out the kitchen."

"Tried that," Bobby told them, "It never happens when I'm downstairs."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Maybe some old-fashioned surveillance is in order," he mused.

"Worth a try," agreed Bobby.

So that evening, before retiring for the night, Sam unobtrusively set up his laptop with the webcam trained on the refrigerator.

"You think it could be either of these guys?" Dean waved a hand at the pups, who were curled together on the floor on their blanket.

"I can't see how it could be," Sam shrugged.

"Bacon fairies," Dean asserted. "It's bacon fairies. Thieving tinkling shiny little fuckers."

"Dean..."

"At least we know how to kill 'em," Dean said emphatically, "We just lure 'em into the microwave with bacon, and nuke 'em."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

A day went by. Then another. Dean coaxed one of the junkers in the yard back to life, and Sam helped Bobby with some of his research projects while looking for the Winchesters' next job. Lars and Lemmy spent less time with Patch and their siblings, and stuck close to their Hunters, separating from their litter to join their new Pack, as was the way of things.

There were no bacon thefts.

Bobby was ready to declare the episodes over, when he came down to the kitchen one morning, and...

"God's tits!" he roared, "They've done it again!"

"Bobby?" came a sleepy voice as Sam wandered into the kitchen, "What are you... oh."

Bobby stood, with a face like thunder, clutching an empty wrapper, glaring at a puddle of yoghurt on the floor, from which two tracks of little paw prints led out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs.

"I hope you didn't have your taste buds set on blueberry yoghurt this morning," he said ruefully, "Because it looks like it got in their way."

"That pot was half full!" humphed Sam irritably. Shaking his head, he sat down at the table. "Let's see if kitchen-cam saw anything," he muttered.

Sam fiddled briefly with the laptop, fast forwarding until a small flash of movement darted across the screen.

"Whoa, whoa!" Bobby nudged him, "Stop it there!"

"I saw it," Sam replied, running back the footage back, "Let's see what we got..."

"Hey, what are you watching?" asked Dean with a leer as he sauntered in, in search of breakfast, "Are there any naked women involved?"

"I don't care if they're nekkid, but are they stealing my bacon?" Bobby wanted to know.

Shushing at both of them, Sam found the relevant place, and restarted the footage.

The clock on the wall showed that it was the middle of the night when two small, dark shapes made their way into the kitchen. The pups headed for the refrigerator, raising their noses and sniffing intently.

There was a noise from the stairs, and they froze on the spot; Lars put his head over his brother's back, and both of them disappeared.

Dean wandered into shot, yawning and scratching, opened the refrigerator, and picked up a carton of juice.

"Oh, gross," snarled Sam, watching as his big brother drank directly from the container, "Other people have to drink that too, you know!"

Dean put back the juice, burped heartily, then selected a piece of leftover pizza and a chunk of the apricot pie they'd reheated after dinner the previous night.

"Pizza fairies, huh, Tinkerbell?" queried Sam. "Pizza fairies, and pie fairies?"

"I was hungry, all right?" Dean snapped defensively, "A man's entitled to a midnight snack if he's been working hard all day..."

On the screen, Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve and his hands on his tee shirt, burped again, then yawned, scratched his groin, and headed out of the kitchen, presumably to go back to bed. A few minutes later, the pups reappeared, listening carefully.

"I thought I heard 'em a couple of times, and went to check," chuckled Bobby, "Little asshats were probably there, right under my nose while I looked."

The pups made their way to the refrigerator once more.

"How do they get to it?" Dean asked, "Even Lemmy is nowhere near big enough..."

"Hang on," Sam sounded puzzled, "What's he doing?"

At first it didn't seem like anything was happening: the pups stared at the appliance, and Lemmy's big floppy overgrown ears twitched both at once. They twitched again, and again, then started to...

There was no other word for it, they started to flap.

Dean goggled at the screen as a low hum sounded while the pup's ears flapped faster and faster, until they were two black blurs. As they watched, Lemmy rose gently off the floor.

"Holy shit!" yipped Dean.

"God's tits!" breathed Bobby.

"That's a hell of a power to weight ratio for such a small surface area," marvelled Sam.

As he rose slowly off the floor, Lemmy grabbed hold of Lars by the scruff of the neck. The quiet hum of his flapping ears changed pitch slightly, and the two of them began to rise.

When they were about four feet off the ground, Lars stretched out to the refrigerator door... and disappeared through it.

Lemmy dropped carefully back to the floor, looking up expectantly.

A minute later, two rashers of bacon appeared and dropped, then Lars clumsily jumped back through the door, reappearing as he left the refrigerator. However, he must've caught the yoghurt pot with a foot on the way out, because it came out with him, and both pot and pup fell awkwardly.

Lars landed with a stifled yelp, and Lemmy darted forward, nosing at his brother and licking his ears, assuring himself that the smaller pup was unhurt. Once it became clear that Lars had just given himself a fright, they took a rasher each, and, walking through the puddle of yoghurt, sat down on the floor. Lemmy gnawed contentedly at the rind, while Lars took the other. When they'd finished their illicit snacks, they left the kitchen, presumably to head back up the stairs and sneak back into the Winchesters' room, leaving a trail of pawprints in their wake.

"Well, slap my ass and call me Shirley," breathed Bobby. "I knew those little bastards were stealing my bacon, I just had no idea how..."

"Teamwork, that's how," Sam actually giggled. "At least we know why Lemmy has those huge ears. Maybe we should rename him Dumbo after all."

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, "A flying dog. Who the hell ever heard of a flying dog?"

"He didn't so much fly as hover," Bobby corrected.

"It may be something he can't sustain as he gets bigger," Sam postulated, "Technically, he should need a flapping 'wing' span of an albatross."

"Technically, they shouldn't be able to walk through doors, set fires by peeing, or grow teeth like knives," chuckled Bobby, "I'm afraid that this is one pedigree that just doesn't do 'technically'."

The pups came bumbling in at that point and, seeing Bobby with the bacon wrapper, sat at his feet with their very best eager and alert expressions on place.

"You got no shame, do ya?" he glared at them. They wagged their tails and dialled the Big Brown Eyes all the way up to I'm Too Adorable To Ignore.

"Well, we can't discipline them for it," Sam was philosophical, "Not after the fact. You gotta catch 'em in the act for that."

"Well, bacon's off the menu for everybody, thanks to you two," Bobby growled. Lemmy's ears drooped in a picture of appealing submission, while Lars stared right back, utterly unsubdued. "Idjits," he shook his head, "I'm surrounded by idjits. It's like bein' some ancient subcontinental deity, only instead of a necklace of skulls or severed heads, I get a necklace of idjits."

"We could always go out for breakfast," Dean suggested.

"So we could," nodded Bobby, "Just as soon as you clean up the mess."

"Okay," Dean decided, "Sam, you clean up the yoghurt, then..."

"Hey!" Sam snapped, "Why should I clean up the yoghurt?"

"Because it's your yoghurt, and your dog knocked it out of the refrigerator to start with," Dean replied, his tone annoyingly reasonable.

"He could only do that because your dog gave him a boost!" Sam countered.

'I'm oldest, and I'm delegating the task to you," instructed Dean.

"I don't care if you're the Maharajah of Swat, I'm not being delegated to," Sam shot back.

"Bobby!" complained Dean, "Sam won't clean up the yoghurt!"

"Bobby!" Sam countered immediately, "Dean's trying to order me around!"

"Knock it off," growled Bobby, "Or you can both go sit on The Naughty Mat in the panic room."

Dean looked confused. "There is no mat in the panic room," he pointed out.

"Then you idjits can go sit on The Naughty Cement," Bobby smiled unpleasantly.

The clean-up got underway with a certain amount of bickering, eye rolling and huffing, but went a bit more affably, if not terribly efficiently, once the pups got involved, and discovered that they actually liked yoghurt.

Doing his best to radiate disapproval, Bobby turned his back to hide his grin. If grand-children were supposed to be revenge on your kids, Jimi, and now his pups, were probably the closest he'd ever get.

Seeing the smiles that they put on his boys' faces, he was content with that.

* * *

><p>Does anybody remember 'Pigs In Space' from The Muppet Show? 'Pigs In Space' is what we Down Here call police helicopters.<p>

Reviews are the Leisurely Breakfast with the Winchester Of Your Choice at the Pleasant Cafe Of Life!*

*Any mess you make with the syrup or honey or chocolate spread, you have to clean up before you go. Don't make them squeal loudly enough to annoy the other patrons.


	7. Chapter 6

Hello? Hello? *tap tap tap* Is this thing on? I don't think there's anybody there, little plot bunny, the reviewing has fallen right away, perhaps we should try to do something with 'Grumpy Old Men' instead... what? _What?_ What? You're kidding. Yes, I know, the Denizens have been pestering, but... _Who?_ What? _Where?_ Oh, all right, you're clearly not going to shut up until I write this down, hang on, let me get a cup of tea, and we'll get to it...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

"Sit!" _clickclick_ "Good boy! Wait… wait... _clickclick_ good boy… "

As he peered up at the underside of the Impala, Dean tuned out the noise of Sam. Lemmy settled in beside him, sniffing at what Dean was doing and generally getting in the way. Dean rolled his eyes; the pup was big for his age, as his sire Jimi had been, and showing signs that he would get a lot bigger, and possibly grow to be as cheerfully disruptive.

"Lars, come! OOF!" Sam staggered backwards as the pup made an eager if somewhat uncoordinated charge at his legs, yapping enthusiastically, red traces crackling across his eyes. As Sam stumbled, he dropped the clicker; the puppy snatched it up in triumph, and scooted out of range, heading for the porch with Sam in limping pursuit. "Hey! Come back here!" The pup wiggled under the stairs where he sat, gnawing on his catch (the training clicker being, apparently, the natural prey of the three-quarter Hellhound in the wild).

_clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka_

"You little assbutt!" Sam chided him, "Come out of there with that!"

_clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka_

"It's not like it has any nutritional value," Sam pointed out.

_clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka_

"You're too young to be teething," Sam frowned, "You don't have any permanent teeth erupting yet."

_clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka_

"You don't need to be chewing on that, you just want to…"

__clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka _CLUNK_

With a huff that sounded remarkably like a disappointed sigh, Lars came out from under the stairs, and deposited the dead clicker at Sam's feet, looking up at him with a doggy grin.

"Is there a reason you're trying to make that dog think he's a cicada?" asked Dean, his head popping out from under the car.

"It's a training clicker," scowled Sam, "To let him know that he's doing the right thing."

"Coulda fooled me – I thought he was training you to go click," shrugged his brother, wriggling out from under the Impala and wiping his hands on a rag. "Or coaching you to play the castanets."

"Well, I'm going to make sure my dog starts some sort of training before we hit the road," Sam declared huffily, "Speaking of which, you might consider pulling Lemmy into line more often."

"He doesn't need pulling into line," asserted Dean, patting the larger puppy, "He comes when he's called, he stays with me. He's a good boy."

"He's been putting his head through the refrigerator and stealing stuff again," accused Sam. "Sausages. Bobby caught him doing it."

"So?" remarked Dean. "I put my head into the refrigerator all the time to take stuff. The only difference is, I have to open the door first."

"He's developed a taste for yoghurt," Sam went on. "My yoghurt," he added pointedly.

"Well, Lars is a sneaky little bastard who's obsessed with my money – he took my wallet out of my jacket, and pulled out two credit cards and some twenties! I caught him burying them!"

"Lemmy pulls my shirts out of my duffle and pees on them!" Sam accused.

"Only the girly ones that should be set on fire," Dean defended his pup. "Anyway, Lars finds my magazines, and pees on them."

"Only the gross ones that are ready to go up in flames by themselves," snarked Sam.

The argument was interrupted when Bobby came striding across the yard with a concerned expression. Janis rose stiffly to her feet, and trotted to his side, Rumsfeld beside her, with Patch bringing up the rear.

"Knock off your ruckus you idjits," he growled, "We got a search to conduct."

"What?" Sam blinked in disbelief. "You mean… again?"

"Yep," Bobby nodded grimly. "She's gone."

Dean groaned. "Why can't she just pick a Hunter already? She's had a dozen to choose from! Women, they're so damned choosy. Impossible to satisfy."

Sam was already heading for the car. "We'll go east, Bobby," he said.

"Okay, I'll head west," he confirmed. Janis and Patch climbed into the cab of his truck, he helped Rumsfeld in, and the two vehicles set out in opposite directions.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Patch and Janis began barking before he caught sight of her. She came into view, a small black shape trotting purposefully along the side of the road. Bobby sighed.

Lita was the only female in the litter of three-quarter Hellhound pups that jigsaw dog Patch had produced. She was also the most stubborn, most determined, most adventurous, and had a bad case of itchy feet to boot. He'd put a couple of bells on her collar after her first major excursion when she was just five weeks old, but she'd simply slipped out of it, and gone walkabout once more.

It was past time for her to choose her Hunter. But here she was, having slipped away quietly again, and headed west with a single-mindedness that was kind of scary in such a young animal. It was times like this that she put him in mind of another pup, a female, the smallest of her litter, who had waited and waited and waited for the right Hunter…

He pulled the truck onto the shoulder in front of her, and waited for her to catch up. Her dam and her aunt Janis jumped down from the seat, anxiously sniffing at her, while Rumsfeld yipped anxiously to her.

"You know, if you'd asked, I coulda given you the money for a bus ticket," he laughed gently as the little thing looked up at him with a serious expression. He picked her up and satisfied himself that she was unhurt. "So, you heading west, again?" he mused. "Have I ever told you how much you remind me of your Auntie Joni?..."

The pup stretched her head out towards the setting sun, nose in the air, as if she was casting for a scent.

Bobby settled her on the seat between her dam and her aunt, messaged the Winchesters that the wandering pup had been found safe and well – again – and headed back to the yard. He had a phone call to make.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Sit!" _clickclick_ "Good boy! Drop... drop... like this... drop..." _clickclick_ "Good boy, Lars!"

Three days later, Dean was in one of the sheds, inspecting a crank from one of the yard's wrecks for salvageablility, while Lemmy sat pressed against his leg. The weather had turned inclement in a last burst of lingering winter; as a rumble of distant thunder rolled, Lemmy leaned into Dean with a small whine. Apparently, an intense dislike of thunderstorms was something else that he'd inherited from his father.

"If you pee in here and set anything on fire, Bobby will be very unhappy with you," Dean grinned at the pup, whose big brown eyes peered at him. "And after last night's thunderstorm, that's two pairs of shorts I've lost to you now." He wandered to the doorway, and they stood watching their little brothers.

"Olé!" called Dean dramatically as Sam clicked the clicker.

"You might want to try some of this with Lemmy," Sam told him, reaching down to pat Lars, "It's never too early to start basic obedience."

"And he's doing a wonderful job of training you to feed him clickers," Dean smiled. "He's clearly not getting enough plastic in his diet. How many is that now? Four? Didn't he eat two of them yesterday?"

"It's just because he's inquisitive," Sam scowled, "And that's a good thing. It's important that he remain interested and engaged, and it's like a fun game, because he's only a pup."

"He's gonna end up like the crocodile in Peter Pan," warned Dean, "Only instead of going 'tick tock' he'll go 'click click'."

Pointedly turning his back on his big brother, Sam called Lars, who had wandered away to sniff at an interesting weed. "Come! Come!" _clickclick _"That's it! Good boy!"

The pup galumphed towards him, but suddenly broke off, and veered to the side. He started digging intently at a small rock, alternating between barking urgently and whining for his Alpha's attention.

"What? What is it?" asked Sam, kneeling down beside the pup, "What have you found?" He peered carefully at the rock. It didn't appear in any way threatening. He put down the clicker, picked up a stick, and carefully turned it over.

"There's nothing here, fella," he reassured the pup, "Just a couple of bugs, and... hey!"

_clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka_

Lars grabbed the clicker and headed for the stairs.

_clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka_

Dean erupted into laughter as Sam attempted to extract the pup from his hiding place.

__clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka _CLONK_

"Five out of five, bro!" Dean called cheerily. Sam flipped him off.

He turned back to his engine parts until Lemmy suddenly stood up, barked happily, and headed for the house. He wondered if Bobby had cleaned out the refrigerator; Lemmy had demonstrated that he could smell leftover-cold-sausages-that're-not-quite-fit-for-human-consumption-but-fine-for-a-part-Hellhound's-cast-iron-digestion at a distance of several hundred yards.

He made his way after the dog in a leisurely fashion (because he was himself quite partial to leftover-cold-sausages-that're-not-quite-fit-for-human-consumtion-but-fine-for-a-part-Hellhound's-cast-iron-digestion himself), his stomach rumbling in pleasant anticipation of delightfully filling processed meat substances, and his brain rumbling in pleasant anticipation of the noises of disgust that Sam would make.

He discovered that the reason for the dog's excitement was not the existence of a dish of delicious, convenient, probably-containing-a-bit-of-animal-product snacks ready for consumption, but the pick-up that had pulled into the yard. Slightly disappointed, he made his way to where Bobby and Sam were smiling, waiting to greet the new arrivals. The truck looked familiar, as did the pigtailed man who got out of the driver's side, but the decidedly rounded figure that climbed awkwardly out of shotgun was... unexpected.

"Shit, what happened to you?" he blurted, gawping.

"Well, Dean," began Andrew patiently, "When a mummy wolf and a daddy wolf, who are married and love each other very much, go to their den at night, they do what we call Special Cuddles, then they send a letter to the stork..."

"Hello to you too, Dean," Ronnie's smile didn't go near her eyes as she winced and stretched her back, "As gallant as ever."

"You mean... you're... you know..." Dean waved his hands vaguely. "Pregnant?"

"No," she continued, "I've been eating too many Americans, and they're pretty damned high in saturated fat. I've started with Jenny Craig, though, and the pre-packaged starving Sudanese are delivered right to my door, they're convenient and tasty, plus, with Jenny's range of low-fat, high fibre Bangladeshi orphan snack packs, I'm never hungry! Weight loss has never been so easy, so cost effective, and so environmentally responsible!"

When he looked at her blankly, she sighed. "Yes, Dean. I'm in whelp. Gday Sam," she went on. "And this must be Lemmy and Lars! Wow! You guys have grown!" she enthused, fussing over them.

"Hiya Ronnie," Sam grinned widely as the pups yipped greetings and basked in her attention. "So, how far along are you?"

"Somewhere between six and seven months," she answered, bending awkwardly to pet the two fuzzy little heads competing for pats.

"I thought you guessed about six weeks when Patch had her puppies?" Sam commented.

"I guessed wrong," she shrugged.

"Well, I thank you for coming," Bobby told her. "Do you think we might go inside?" he suggested, as a cold gust of wind brought a spattering of fat raindrops out of the darkening sky, "I'd rather not get completely soaked, if it's all the same to everybody else."

As they made their way inside, Dean addressed Ronnie's expanded midriff.

"You okay in there?" he called loudly. "Still got enough room? She feeding you enough? You need anything? Flashlight? Snacks?"

"Ow!" Ronnie let out a hissing breath. "Great, the little bastard just kicked me in the pancreas."

"Oh, that sucks," Dean sympathised, "Does it do the tap-dance-on-your-kidneys thing in the middle of the night?"

Ronnie gave him a strange look. "How would you know?" she asked eventually.

"Oh, I've been pregnant," Dean told her airily, waving a hand dismissively as Ronnie's eyes bugged, "I know all about the kicking thing. And the trampolining on your bladder, that's the worst. The waddling, that's the worst too. And the swollen feet and the backaches, they're the worst too. And the cravings in the middle of the night, they were terrible. Or maybe the gas, that was pretty bad."

"Definitely the gas," asserted Sam hurriedly.

"Bobby," Ronnie began tentatively, "Bobby, I think the wound-up rubber band running Dean's brain might finally have snapped..."

"It's a long story," sighed Bobby.

They congregated in the living room, Ronnie putting her feet up on the sofa at Dean's insistence ("It could be worse, at least you don't have an angel telling you what you can and can't do.") while Bobby fixed coffee, and explained the details of Lita's behaviour.

"I got nothing," shrugged Ronnie, "I'll have to ask her, and see if we can find out. This is surprisingly good," she added, gesturing to the small tomatoes-in-blueberry-yoghurt snack that Dean had fixed for her in lieu of coffee, "Not a combo I would've thought of."

"I found it very good when I was feeling queasy or tired," Dean told her, "But if you're feeling really hungry, try spreading it on a meat lovers pizza." Ronnie nodded thoughtfully as Sam and Andrew pulled faces of disgust.

"Well, there's no time like the present," announced Bobby, "I'll go get missy, and we can see if she'll talk to you."

"It might be better if I go out with you and meet her in their kennel, her home territory," Ronnie suggested. Bobby agreed, so he helped her to worm into an oversized coat against the rain that had started up again, and led the way.

"So, you're gonna be a daddy!" Dean grinned at Andrew.

"Yeah," Andrew smiled wanly. "I'm not sure whether to feel thrilled, run screaming, or throw up."

"It must be several decades since two werewolves mated," Sam pondered, "Hunters have pretty much thinned the ranks to the point where Packs don't exist any more. How much do you know about, you know, the whole delivery thing?"

"Not much," Andrew admitted. "In communities, it was the females who dealt with it, and passed it along as oral tradition. Practically nothing got written down."

"So, how many legs will it have when it's born?" queried Dean.

"That's a very good question," Andrew replied sheepishly. "In truth, we don't know whether it will be in human form, lupine form, or somewhere in between, we just don't know. Bobby was going to lend us a couple of books that might have some details while we're here."

"So you can't exactly book a hospital stay, then," mused Sam.

"We're in touch with a couple of sympathetic doctors who've helped out Hunters before," Andrew told them, "They're aware of the situation. We'll see who we call when it happens."

"Why do you need two doctors?" asked Dean.

"One's a GP, and one's a vet," Andrew explained.

"Makes sense," Sam conceded, "Since you don't know whether..."

He was interrupted by the bang of the door as Bobby and Ronnie rushed back in, their faces grim.

"Bobby, what is it?" asked Sam immediately.

"She's gone," he told them brusquely, "The weather's getting worse, it's gettin' dark, and the little idjit has gone."

"So saddle up boys," Ronnie instructed, indicating Lemmy and Lars, "And we'll need you pair on deck too. We have to get out there and find her before she drowns, freezes, or gets washed away."

* * *

><p>Oh noes! Save the puppy! Save the puppppppyyyyyyyyyyyy!<p>

I can't believe what this little plot bunny has come up with. I think we should feed it. Admittedly, I may end up typing with my eyes closed, but we'll see.

I like to get reviewed,  
>It's like plot bunny food,<br>It puts them in the mood,  
>To see these tales conclude,<br>With special features lewd,  
>Where Denizens collude<br>In actions slightly crude  
>In which they have pursued<br>Winchesters almost nude,  
>And doesn't quite preclude<br>Behaviour that's quite rude.


	8. Chapter 7

ZOMG you feeds the bunny so much! You are so naise! *sniff sniff* Now it's waddling about, looking fat and contented, and burping happily as it whispers in my ear and nibbles on my toes, which is kind of disgusting but cute at the same time... a plague upon Real Life, which has the reprehensible habit of, as Darla M would say, getting one by the tits.

Dog training in our household has had variable results: the German Shepherd has finally made it to Class 4 (the level at which you can start trialling competitively, should you wish to), whilst the Greyhound has, after four months, mastered 'sit' and 'drop'. (For me, anyway, she won't do it for my husband because he's a dead loss as an Alpha - you only have to watch them pretty much push him off the sofa or out of the bed to work that out). We too have a book all about keeping and training greyhounds; on the topic of training retired racers in obedience, it can basically be summarised as follows: 'Good luck with that, and don't hold your breath'. But it's probably to be expected; Greyhounds have been bred to run very fast, not to learn to obey commands. Or operate the bouncy treat ball, for that matter: the Shepherd became an expert in working the treat ball as soon as I put it up (grab the dangly bit, yank hard to stretch the elastic, shake it and let go to make the ball bounce around, snuffle up kibble that bounces out), whereas the Greyhound just stands and stares longingly at the magic yellow ball and wonders why it won't drop food for her... it's okay, she's patient, she just waits until her galpal gets hungry again.

TBO, _of course_ there will be a happy ending - that's the only sort I do. I'll leave the angst to the actual SPN writers. And no, I have NOT forgiven That Gamble Woman. I've half a mind to write a ficlet where she goes to Hell and is tortured horribly for her sins, perhaps by being made to write music video scripts for Rebecca Black or Justin Bieber or other tuneless tots, or scenes from _America's Next Plus-Sized Pole Dancer, _or_ The Bachelor - Leprosy Island._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

"Existentially pregnant?" Ronnie repeated in a bewildered tone.

"Yup," grinned Dean, peering through the rain hitting the Impala's windscreen as he regaled her with the tale of how he'd annoyed another witch. "Fred the non-existent assbaby. All the symptoms of pregnancy, but no Fred at the end of it."

"A pity," she suggested, "Bobby could've put you in a cage and charged admission. Roll up, roll up, and see the world's first real live assbaby and its daddy!" She paused. "Of course, if you actually had an assbaby, you'd probably end up sitting on a ring cushion for the rest of your life. If you could ever bear to sit down again."

"Yeah," nodded Dean, "I have to admit, the whole labour thing, it hurt like a bitch. And I'm speaking as somebody who has actually been to Hell. I thought I was gonna die. Death would've been a blessed release. It felt like that scene out of the first 'Alien' film, you know, John Hurt? 'Imagine pushing a turkey out through your nose' doesn't even come close. Seriously, shitting a red-hot bowling ball would've hurt less. And it just went on, and on, and on, getting worse and worse..."

"Yeah, thanks for that inspiring pep talk, coach, it's exactly the sort of thing I need to hear," Ronnie grumbled, peering through the window. "I can't see a bloody thing in this. You'd better pull over again."

The Impala eased to a halt on the verge as Ronnie wound down the window. "Give me a hand here, Lemmy," she gruffed to the pup, as she let her features change to give her voice the resonance that she'd need for the sound to carry.

Sticking her head out the window, she drew breath, and let loose a long, mournful sounding howl into the night.

_Little one! Little one! Pup of the Blood! Come home! The weather is bad. There is warmth and safety in your den. Your Den-Alpha waits at your den. Warmth and safety. Pup of the Blood! Come home!_

Lemmy added his little voice to hers, calling for his sister.

The only reply they got was a hint of another deeper howl, far to the west, largely lost in the wind.

"That was Andrew," she huffed in disappointment. "Not a peep from Lita. Damn it! How far can she have got?"

"Further than you might think," Dean replied gloomily, "That little assbutt can be sneakier than Lars. She was more than half way into town last time when Bobby found her."

"Well, if she's anywhere nearby, she's not... aaah!" Ronnie gasped, and clutched at her belly. "Aaaaaah, shit! Shit! Aaaaaargh! OoooooOOOOOOBUGGER!"

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," she said through gritted teeth, "Little mongrel is just kicking again, or something... ow! Ow! Ow ow ow ow! Shit! It's been doing this since lunchtime. I probably shouldn't have eaten that second schnitzel, red meat seems to make the little bastard frisky..."

"It'll be Braxton-Hicks contractions," Dean nodded knowingly. "They're like practice for the real thing. Hey, you in there!" he spoke sternly to Ronnie's midriff. "Stop that! We're busy!"

"Er, are you talking to my stomach?" asked Ronnie, still wincing.

"It worked for me," he shrugged, "Cas made Fred settle down by talking to him. What do you call it?"

"Call it?" she looked dubious as she grimaced. "Well, sometimes we refer to it as the zecke. It's a German word for tick, as in blood-sucking parasite that can make you feel very unwell."

"Okay. Right, Zeck, listen up in there," Dean went on in a business-like tone, "We're in the middle of a search for a lost puppy, here. I need your mother in the game for translation duties. We really have to find this puppy, because it's cold and wet and dark, and you messing around in there is not helping. So just chill, little guy, and when we're done, you can mosh as much as you like, put a foot through Mom's liver if you really want to, but just now, we'd really appreciate a bit of quiet."

"Wow," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "You should write a book..." her expression changed to one of surprise. "Oh. It's... backed off."

"Told you," Dean said, "You just gotta be firm. Thank you, Zeck, we do appreciate your cooperation, dude, really," he finished.

She gave him an appraising stare. "The thing that I don't get," she mused, "Is that Sam is an intelligent bloke, and Jimi was as smart as they come, yet neither of them ever thought to murder you in your sleep before." She wound the window up. "Let's keep going."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby put his head out into the dark for what felt like the tenth time and called to see whether the pup had come home. He was holding the fort in case she did – she was after all a sensible little thing, and might well have changed her mind when the weather turned. But there was nothing but the answering whuff of old Janis, snug in the kennel with Patch and Rumsfeld.

Shaking his head, he went to make himself another coffee, then headed for his study. He wasn't achieving anything by pacing, except for wearing out the floor, so he might as well do something useful while he waited for the Winchester/werewolf pairings to call in with any news.

He grabbed for his cell as soon as it buzzed. "Any luck?" he asked without preamble.

"That's a negative," replied Sam, "We're almost to the place where you found her last time, but... no answer when... diff... see... rain..."

"You're breaking up, Sam," Bobby told him, "It must be the weather. Just keep at it, we can't leave the little idjit out there." There was nothing but more static on the line, so he cut the call.

In his study, he lifted a pile of books, looking for a particular tome. Sam had been At It Again, he noted grumpily as he moved, piled and shifted books large and small. The boy was determined to bring some sort of order to Bobby's extensive library – he'd even come up with his own occult version of the Dewey system, and did idjit things like sort and index and catalogue them according to author, title, topic, language, date of publication, and other related references. If that wasn't bad enough, then he went and shelved them in order, and how was a body supposed to find what he was lookin' for if somebody had done that?

Eventually, admitting defeat, he grumblingly consulted the latest catalogue print out. He located several books, and took them to the living room. Deciding that he could distract himself by bookmarking any relevant sections for Ronnie, he settled in to do some reading.

There wasn't much about werewolf reproduction that was ever written down. As in many human cultures through history, it was women's business, a combination of mysterious female ritual and practical midwifery, something the females dealt with amongst themselves, and did not discuss with males, and certainly not outsiders. They probably would never ordinarily have discussed it with a seventeenth century Lutheran monk, but Bruder Ansgar had apparently been an exceptionally compassionate and worldly individual who, as apothecary to his monastery and local rural community, had come to the medical aid of a pack of German werewolves, and even assisted a couple of she-wolves with whelping, and picked up some information.

For example, Ansgar had discovered that the primal nature of something as fundamentally animal as giving birth usually resulted in the female reverting to her lupine form, which gave him a bit of a fright the first time he was called to attend to a difficult birth. _For Liesl I know as a devout and decent young woman, slight of stature and modest of demeanour, yet in childbed she assumed her lupine form, and was a terrifying sight, being fully six feet and more tall had she stood erect. _He also discovered that a bitch would stay in lupine form for some time afterwards. _This is presumably an instinct developed to best protect the newborn against threat, as a large and ferocious wolf would be far more capable than a small and humble human form by comparison – Liesl transformed is taller than Brother Ernest, and would easily dispatch even Erwin the blacksmith should he attempt to harm her whelp. _

The offspring of two werewolves could emerge in either form, and Ansgar had no firm theory as to what determined which form it would take, although he suspected it could be related to ancestry and the degree of control that its parents had over the shapeshift. _It is, I think, this possibility of either form that makes the calculation of gestation times unreliable. Their wise woman Erma told me that a woman turned in adulthood is more likely to carry her baby for the human term of nine months, whereas a woman born to wolves or transformed young is more likely to deliver earlier, and it is not unknown for a woman, whose parents were both born wolves, to deliver her whelp well formed after only six months. _

While the delivery was in progress, the nervous father would be receiving the moral support of his friends, delivered via a continuous supply of beer, so some things didn't change. Ansgar had found it astonishing to watch the new father, who, when presented with his pup, would revert to a hulking monster, but be unable to do anything more that simper and croon at the youngster. _It is apparently the same instinct to protect the young that causes the male to assume his bestial form, yet simple observation suggests that he is simultaneously rendered harmless, so besotted is he with the new child that he can do nothing but whine and cringe and play the mewling milksop._

Bobby grinned to himself. It sounded as though they were going to have to plan to have the vet attending after all. It was going to be an entirely... _interesting_ occasion. For the vet's sake, he hoped that he or she had at least seen an Old North Werewolf before, otherwise the poor bastard was in for a hell of a shock when Ronnie went four-legged and started getting irritable. And then even more of a shock when Andrew followed suit – they guy could be such a big softy to start with, he found himself wondering what the first aid protocol was if a seven foot werewolf fainted. He sure as hell wouldn't be the first new father to do so...

Yep, he thought to himself, it's going to be interesting. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when it happens. Or, for preference, a fly on the ceiling, as far away as possible. Best case scenario, a fly watching proceedings on CCTV.

Because he felt really, really sorry for any poor sap who was going to be within a mile when the excrement made sudden contact with the rotatory air recirculation device.

Chuckling to himself, he marked the place in that book, then took out his cell to try to call Dean, and see if he and Ronnie were having any more luck. He frowned when he couldn't get through; probably the weather, he sighed to himself. Never mind, they'd show up soon enough if they found the wayward pup. He pulled another book towards himself, and began to scan it for relevant information.

* * *

><p>Incidentally, this plot bunny's name is Kenneth. Any more Notes From Mum may be addressed to him directly.<p>

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Slightly-Damp-From-Searching-For-A-Puppy-In-The-Rain Winchester Of Your Choice Needing Vigorous Towelling Off on the Porch Of Life Before Coming Back Indoors!


	9. Chapter 8

Dean, of course, pissed off that witch in 'Pregnant Pause', the tale of Fred the Not-Real Assbaby, so he knows all about it. Just ask him, he'll tell you.

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

"Still no signal," humphed Dean, as Ronnie and Lemmy called into the night once more.

"Hardly surprising, given the..." Ronnie suddenly stopped, and gasped. Dean peered at her.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked again, flicking on the interior light.

Ronnie's face was white, and she shook her head. "The zecke," she wheezed, "It's... it's..."

"Huh, enjoy it while it's this tame," said Dean knowingly, "I thought the Braxton-Hicks business was bad enough, but they weren't anything compared to actual labour – that was more like sitting on a running band saw, and before you ask, yes, I do know what that's like, been to Hell, remember..." Ronnie continued to gape at him. "It's okay," he waved a hand airily, "It'll only go for a minute or two."

"Last... ten... minutes," Ronnie grated out, clutching at her stomach.

"What?" Dean stared at her as she let out a grimacing hiss of pain. "Why didn't you say?"

"Thought it was just the schnitzel," she panted sheepishly. "Told you, red meat makes it frisky. It's been getting frisky since lunchtiEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" She slouched in the seat, trying to straighten out. "Aaaaaaaaargh! Oh fuck me, that hurts..."

"Since lunchtime?" Dean echoed incredulously. "Shit! Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I thought it was the bloody schnitzel!" she yapped at him. "Are you deaf as well as stupeeeeEEEEEEEE OOOOOOOOWOOOOOOO!" The last word turned into a pained howl, as her fangs descended.

"Well, if I wasn't deaf before, I am now," griped Dean, batting at one of his ears, "You could've stuck your head out the window before you did that." He put the car into gear. "I think this trumps a lost puppy, I'm gonna take you back to Bobby's." He brought the Impala around in a spray of mud, and set off back the way they'd come, the back end fishtailing on the slippery road.

Unfortunately, the road surface wasn't the only thing the weather had affected. It was just lucky that with the rain and the darkness, and the presence of a pregnant-but-quite-possibly-soon-to-be-not person on board, Dean wasn't going as fast as he might've otherwise, so when the downed tree blocking the road suddenly loomed in the headlights, he managed to wash off enough speed and take evasive action so that the car ended up slewing sideways off the road and onto the shoulder, and not straight into the tree.

"Fuck!" he shouted, "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuckity fuck it!"

"As eloquent... as ever..." panted Ronnie."

It was a very large tree, and Dean didn't have to get out of the car to inspect the situation to know that moving it would be impossible. "We'll have to double back," he told her, "We'll call this in once we're back at Bobby's."

"You could try... swearing at it," she wheezed, trying to retract her wolf teeth. "Or pouting. You can pout epically. You could pout... for your country."

"Fuck off," he told her tersely, checking the dash lights. "Then, fuck off some more. Then when you arrive, fuck off from there too." He restarted the stalled engine, and put the car into gear. "And when you get there, fuck off until you get back here, then fuck off again." He eased onto the gas. The wheels spun in the mud.

Muttering dire threats against any deity stupid enough to be within earshot, he shifted into low gear, with no result. He tried rocking his Baby out, reverse then drive, but she just dug herself in further.

"Keep going, you might... strike oil," suggested Ronnie. "I know, I know," she forestalled him, "Fuck off, right?"

A quick inspection of the back end made it clear that Baby was unharmed, but well and truly stuck."

"So, we're not fucking off anywhere in a hurry, then?" she asked, seeing his expression.

"Doesn't look like it," he sighed resignedly. Ronnie hissed again, and let out a low growl that rose to an anguished whine, her fangs reappearing. "Look, you might be more comfortable in the back seat until this passes..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Andrew stood in the rain, and let loose a long, carrying howl that made the hair on Sam's neck stand up, while Lars added his puppy voice to the increasingly desperate summons.

"Anything?" Sam asked plaintively.

"Not a damned thing," the werewolf replied, shaking water off before getting back into the truck. "If she got caught in this, she may well be bunkered down somewhere."

"I still can't get a signal," Sam scowled at his cell. He started the truck, and set out slowly along the road again, Andrew and Lars peering out into the dark. "I wonder how Dean and Ronnie are doing," he smiled briefly.

"Probably swapping pregnancy stories again," Andrew grinned, "Pissing witches off is something of a hobby for your brother, isn't it?"

"Maybe 'addiction' is a better word," humphed Sam, "Because he doesn't seem to be able to help himself. Still, at least they've got something to talk about. It might even stop them sniping at each other for a while, you know, a shared experience."

"They're probably swapping disgusting food combo ideas as we speak," groaned Andrew. "Nobody should have to watch anybody eat strawberries with peanut butter. It's not natural."

"I hear you," agreed Sam glumly, "Being sent to get onion rings and grapes in the middle of the night is bad enough, but then being sent to get cherry syrup to put on them, blah."

"I think they were just doing that to watch our faces turn green," opined Andrew.

"I can believe that," nodded Sam. "I bet they're doing it right now."

"I bet they're laughing about what they're going to talk about when we get back," Andrew stated.

"I bet they have a contest to see who can gross us out more," Sam concurred. "It's the sort of thing they'd do, and think it was hilarious."

"Yep," Andrew mused, "I'll bet that right now, they're having a great old time at our expense."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Not the upholstery!_ Not the upholstery!_" Dean yelped frantically from the front seat as Ronnie's wolf teeth came out again. She curled on her side on the back seat, and looked as if she was going to bite something. "Don't you _dare_ bite the upholstery!"

"Fine!" she snapped, "I'll bite you instead! Would that be better? Aaaaaaaargh!" she clutched at her stomach.

Dean threw her one of the old towels he'd collected in preparation for the Winchester pups' first road trip, in case they'd inherited Jimi's early age travel sickness. "Here, chew on this," he ordered.

Ronnie sank her teeth into it. "Ohhhhh, I think the zecke has decided it wants out," she moaned in a muffled voice.

"What? _What_?" Dean looked horrified. "You can't! You're not pregnant enough yet!"

"Try telling that to the thing trying to claw its way out!" Ronnie rasped.

"You canNOT have a baby in my Baby!" Dean said sternly. "Don't you even _think_ about having a baby in my Baby!"

"Okay, then," she snarled, "I'll just cross my legs, shall I? AaaaaaaAAAAAAAaaaaah, oh shit, oh fuck, owwwwww..." She let out another snarl, teeth bristling.

"You need to hang on!" Dean shrieked, "Don't you dare let Zeck out in my car!"

"Well, if you don't like the idea, you can always come on over here, and try to shove it back in!" she snapped, breaking off to let out another howl of pain. "Go on! I dare you!"

"I'm serious!" Dean yelled back, "I mean it! Veronica Claire Shepherd I FORBID you to give birth in my car!"

"I don't give a rat's arse!" Ronnie wailed, "And I don't think Zeck does either! If I don't get a choice here, neither do youoooooOOOOOOWOOOOOO!" She gasped for breath, choking as she fought for air.

"No, no, no," Dean yapped at her, "You need to breathe!"

"I am breathing, you girly-faced moron!" Ronnie screamed at him breathily, "If I wasn't breathing I'd be dead!"

"At least you'd be quiet," he muttered under his breath. "No, I mean breathing breathing, to get some control during the contractions. A series of little short ones, then a long one. It helps, it does, it worked for me. Like this." He demonstrated. "Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!"

Ronnie's grimaced at him. "You are nuts!" she told him, "You are seriously nuts! Owwwwwww! Owwwwww, it's ramping up again, OWWWWWWWW..."

"Ronnie!" Dean grabbed he hand. "Try it just try it! Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!"

"Sheee... Sheeee..." gasped Ronnie.

"Try again," he encouraged. "Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!"

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!" panted Ronnie.

"That's it!" Dean enthused, "That's it, do that again!"

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!" Ronnie rasped out.

"Is it helping?" Dean asked.

She nodded, and winced as another pain hit. "Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!"

"Good, that's good," he told her, "But can you let go of my hand now, because you're squeezing it kind of hard... ow. Ow. Ow. Ow ow ow ow Ronnie, let go now, shit, shit, let go, shit..."

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!" went Ronnie.

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!" went Dean.

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!" went Ronnie.

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit FUUUUUUUCK!" went Dean. "Let go, let go, letgoletgoletgoaaaaaargh!"

Ronnie released his hand, and he inspected it gloomily. "I think you broke it in thirty seven places," he griped, "Let me try the phone again." He still couldn't get a signal. "Oh, great," he moaned to an uncaring universe, "Just great. This is just perfect. I'm in my bogged car with a smartass cow who's about to give birth and I can't even make a phone call! Just perfect! What a great way to spend an evening! It doesn't get any better than this! What could possibly be more fun that this?"

"No no no, it's starting again," wailed Ronnie, "No no no nooooOOOOOOO OOOOOOWROOOOOOO!"

There was a sound of tearing fabric.

Dean took in the sight of a six-foot-four she-werewolf crammed into the back seat of his car, fangs bristling as she howled in pain, and sighed.

* * *

><p>Every time you leave a review,<p>

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	10. Chapter 9

Ah, Dean, we'll just call him Cleopatra, because he is truly Queen Of Denial...

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

"How far does she go when she does this?" asked Andrew, still sweeping his flashlight along the undergrowth as they crawled slowly past an overgrown verge.

"It depends," Sam replied, "The problem is with how surreptitiously she sneaks off. She can be gone for hours before anybody even notices, and by then, she's miles away."

"If only we knew what she was doing," sighed Andrew, "We might be able to take a guess at where she wants to go."

"Dean says that her trekking is a scathing indictment of Bobby's cooking," Sam smiled a little, "But there has to be more to it than that."

"Something to do with her Hellhound heritage?" Andrew wondered. "You don't seem inclined to wander off looking for demons to use as chew toys, do you?" he ruffled Lars' ears, and the pup whuffed happily. "He's very happy to be with you," the werewolf smiled.

"Really?" asked Sam earnestly. "He told you that?"

"He doesn't have to," Andrew grinned as the pup flopped down against Sam again. His face became sad. "I was so sorry to hear about Jimi," he went on quietly. "It's a hard thing to lose a dog. Ronnie still isn't over losing Joni. I don't know if I am either."

"Bobby says you never 'get over it'," Sam sympathised, "The memories just get less… HEY!" he protested as Lars climbed into his lap. "I'm trying to drive here! Ooo-OOO-oh, bad touch bad touch!" he yelped as the pup's feet landed in his groin. "Are you trying to crash us? Stop it!" He braked as the pup nosed at the window and whined. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Sam, put the window down," Andrew told him, watching Lars intently.

Sam rolled the driver's side window down, and Lars put his front paws on the sill, getting another yelp from Sam when his back paws landed somewhere sensitive again. "Aaaaargh! What is it, fella?"

Lars whined, then leaned out and barked sharply into the darkness.

"That's a call to an immediate pack member," translated Andrew, lifting his flashlight again, but I can't see... there! Hit high beam!"

Sam killed the engine and hit the switch, and the truck's headlamps lit up the road ahead.

Trotting steadily towards them through the rain was Lita.

Sam groaned and slumped with relief. "Finally," he groused, getting out of the truck, "Come on, missy, time to go home... hey!"

Ignoring him completely, the little dog bent her head against the weather, and trotted puposefully right past him.

"Lita!" he called, "Lita, get your wandering little ass right back here!" He ran to catch up to her, and snatched her up. "We've been out in the weather looking for you, and you are going home right now, young lady!"

She regarded him seriously, until Sam started to feel like a bug under a microscope.

He unceremoniously deposited her in Andrew's lap, and got back into the truck. "See if you can call them," he suggested. "I'm gonna buy a GPS tracker and nail it to you," he griped at the female pup.

Ronnie's phone went through to voicemail, as did Dean's, so Andrew he left them messages, but there must've been a break in the weather, because he managed to call Bobby. "We got her," Andrew reassured the old Hunter, "Yeah, safe and sound, and completely unrepentant. Headed back towards the yard. No, no idea." He broke off, and whuffed gently to the pup, who yipped back briefly. "She's not saying," he went on, "Just that she wants to go back now. I dunno. Women. Who knows? Yeah, let 'em know. Bye." He cut the call. "He'll keep trying to call them."

"Huh," Sam huffed irritably, "They're probably finalising the details of Operation Gross-Out as we speak."

"It's all right for them, they didn't get all wet fetching madam here," grumped Andrew, patting Lita.

"They'll probably get back before we do," Sam guessed.

"And they'll laugh at us for getting wet," surmised Andrew.

Sam started the truck, backed around carefully, and headed for the salvage yard. "Well, look at it this way," he empathised, "Our evening has been more exciting than theirs. Right now, they're probably both bitching that they're dying of boredom."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Lemmy hunkered down against the front seat and whined. Dean wanted to do that as well, but there really wasn't room for him to join his dog. Besides, he had to keep watching and shoving wadded up towels under Ronnie's claws, unless he wanted the back seat remodelled with extreme prejudice.

It wasn't like he'd never seen an Old North Werewolf up close and personal before. He'd dealt with several, including adult males, hulking monsters, and he was well acquainted with just how big and hairy and fast and ruthless and brutal and nasty they could be.

"Raaaaaaaawrooooooooooo!"

What he'd never really noticed before, he thought, was just how_ loud_ they could be...

"RaaaaaaaaaarrrRRRRRRRROOOOOOO!"

Especially in an enclosed space, like the interior of a car.

"So, er, how's it going?" he asked tentatively. The panting monster looked up at him, giving him an expression that was astonishingly close to one of his brother's bitchfaces, then let its head fall back to the seat, its flanks heaving. "Is it, you know," he waved a hand vaguely at the creature's hindquarters, "Getting any closer to, um, you know..."

As a rule, Old North wolves in lupine form did not have the dexterity to handle weapons; Ronnie had practised for years to be able to perform the astonishing feat of wielding a knife whilst in four-legged form. The painstakingly acquired manual dexterity of her front paws stood her in good stead, affording her the means to answer his query.

She flipped him the big vee.

"Right, right," he nodded, eyeing her carefully, keenly aware that the gun he was carrying was not loaded with silver ammo. "So, uh, scalp massage is supposed to help – of course, you're pretty much scalp all over like this..."

Ronnie curled her lip at him and growled.

"Yeah, okay, foot massage is..." he glanced at the claws that were capable of disembowelling another werewolf. "Maybe not such a good idea in this case. Not unless I want to lose my hands. At the elbows." He looked bereft of ideas. "There was chocolate, too, I remember there was chocolate, but I don't think I have any here..." His foot kicked at the glove box, which sprung open. "I might have some M&Ms," he suggested, turning to peer into the compartment, "Nope, sorry, looks like a bust for chocolate, I guess... aha!" He turned back to her, grinning in triumph, brandishing a half-full flask. "It's okay! We got booze!" He took a long drink. "Well, I got booze. Pregnant people aren't supposed to drink. It's okay, I'll drink yours for you, that's just how awesome I am." He did so. "Oh, fuck, that's better, so, if you're HEY! Look out for my upholstery!"

Ronnie let out an ululating howl, and Dean shoved another towel between her claws and the back seat, muttering about the hassle of repairs. "Getting the pleats done right again is a total bitch," he complained, wedging it under one of her hind feet, "And it AAAAAAAAARGH!" His eyes bugged. "AAAAAAARGH! JESUS CHRIST RONNIE IT'S FUCKING HEAD IS STICKING OUT! AT LEAST I HOPE THAT'S ITS HEAD. OHGODOHGODOHGOD IT'S STICKING OUT! RONNIE IT'S STICKING OUT OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD NOOOOOO MY UPHOLSTERYYYYYY!"

Ronnie howled in pain. Dean howled in horror. Lemmy joined in, just on general principles.

As Dean watched, transfixed, a wet, gloopy bundle slid onto the seat, and Ronnie sagged with exhaustion.

"OH MY GOD IT'S A GREAT BIG BOOGER!" he shrieked, "IT'S LIKE A GREAT BIG BOOGER AND IT'S TOTALLY GROSS!"

Dean gawped in horror, wondering what he was supposed to do. The sticky, yukky little thing just lay there, and then...

"IT'S TWITCHIIIIIIIING! THE BOOGER IS TWITCHIIIIING!"

Ronnie held out her forelimbs, and made a soft whining noise. Gulping and trying very hard not to think about throwing up, Dean took a deep breath, and picked the squelchy, snotty thing, wondering if werewolves were like kangaroos, with babies that were born when they weren't much past the 'a big bunch of cells stuck together' stage, ,maybe it would grow legs later...

As he made to pass it to Ronnie, the slippery membranous coverings tore, and...

A werewolf pup popped out.

Dean stared. The pup was curled in on itself, its dark grey fluffy fur damp and clinging, its ears flat against its head. It wiggled a little, then yawned, gasped, and let out a soft cry, waving one of its tiny little front legs agitatedly.

It was amazing.

Dean used one of the towels to clean the rest of the membrane and mess from the little body. It let out another yip, louder this time, and pedalled its front limbs vigorously, feeling warm and very alive in his hands.

Two bright blue eyes cracked open sleepily, and struggled to focus on him. It waved little paws at him, and yowled loudly.

Smiling hugely, he wrapped the pup in a towel, and handed it to Ronnie, who curled around it, and whuffed and crooned to it.

"A boy," breathed Dean, "He's a boy. Zeck is a boy. You have a son."

Lemmy had his front feet on the back of the front seat, watching proceedings with great interest, and wagging his tail so hard it was in danger of falling off. Dean slumped back into the seat beside him, and patted him.

"Well," he told his own pup, taking another drink, "That was... interesting."

His phone chirped with a message, and he grinned. "They found Lita," he relayed, "Headed back to Bobby's. Go figure. Women. They're impossible to work out. It must be the hormones."

Ronnie found the energy to flip him off.

He finally managed to get a call through to Bobby, and the older man hooted with laughter when he heard the news.

"He'll be here in about twenty minutes to pull us out," Dean explained, "So we just gotta sit tight." He eyed his bottle critically. "I guess I'll have to ration this. I'd offer to share, but..."

A long, hairy arm extended and carefully took the flask from him. Ronnie managed to take a drink without spilling a drop, burped discreetly, and handed it back.

"Impressive," Dean conceded. He raised the flask. "Here's to Zeck, whose timing is as bad as his entrance was disturbing." He drank, then settled comfortably with Lemmy, watching Ronnie and... well, Zeck, in the rear view mirror.

She had a recognisably doggy grin on her face as she sniffed and nuzzled at the newborn, who yipped and mewled back, and Dean wondered if he was going soppy, because for a moment, a scarred werewolf looked beautiful.

He grinned to himself, and decided to worry about the upholstery later.

* * *

><p>Awwwwwww PUPPEEEZ!<p>

Reviews are the Adorably Cuddly Puppies Handed To You By The Winchester Of Your Choice on the Back Seat Of Life!*

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	11. Chapter 10

The fluff! The fluff! It's taking over! _It's taking ovaaaaaaaaaah!_

If you want to review without logging in, as 'Guest', please remember to include your name, so I know who to think warm fuzzy thoughts about.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

Andrew chuckled into the phone. "Really?" He turned to Sam. "Dean bogged the car," he relayed with a grin, "And Bobby's heading out to pull them out... yeah, okay." His face grew clouded for a moment. "What? Bobby, don't you go all mysterious on me, just... yeah, yeah, okay, Yoda, see you when you get back."

"He bogged the car?" Sam smiled with schadenfreudial glee, "How long have they been stuck?"

"Pretty much all this time," replied Andrew.

"Oh, God!" Sam laughed, "They'll be bouncing off the walls with boredom!"

"There's something else," Andrew went on, "Bobby says he has something to tell me, but he didn't want to do it over the phone."

"Something bad?" asked Sam anxiously.

"I don't think so," Andrew opined, "If I had to pick it, I'd say the old guy was trying not to laugh."

"I hope it's not anything that Dean and Ronnie have done," Sam grinned, his expression suggesting that he would not actually be adverse to having a bit of a giggle at his brother's expense.

"It's probably something he's found in his books," Andrew suggested a little gloomily, "Like, 'Werewolves always have at least triplets', or 'After giving birth, the female will kill her mate, eat him, and feed the leftovers to her litter', or something equally cheerful."

"He does love to be first with the worst," Sam agreed.

"I am a bit worried about it," Andrew confided. "The thing is, I've seen really young babies. They're not attractive creatures. They're bright red, and wrinkly, they got no teeth, and they scream a lot. Really, really scream, not just 'Oh I'm unhappy' crying, but 'OH MY GOD THE WORLD IS ENDING!' screaming. And their heads can look really funny. Weird. And they don't do anything, they're just these blobs that eat, cry, and crap. What if I think my kid is ugly? And they wiggle. What if I drop it? I never planned on kids. What if I'm a lousy dad? It's not like having a dog. You can't put it outside if it's noisy, and you can't have it desexed if it behaves badly..."

"Most people seem pretty pleased with them, even if they are a bit, um, aesthetically challenged to start with," smiled Sam, "And I think it's probably different if it's yours. The whole Dad thing, I think most guys just figure it out. I never planned on having a puppy, either," he indicated Lars, who was cuddled between his sister and his Alpha, "But it's kind of just, well, happening."

They pulled into the yard and headed indoors, taking the pups with them. "I'm not risking having that little fuzzball run off again before Ronnie can talk to her," Sam said firmly. His eyes fell on the books Bobby had been reading. "Looks like Bobby got some homework done after all," he commented, opening one of the books.

"Good grief," Andrew muttered, his eyebrows raising as he took in a woodcut illustration in a yellowing tome, "Please tell me I don't look like that when I go plain clothes."

"Oh, that's Baring-Gould," Sam said without looking up, "Either he or his sources had quite a lot of imagination. He was a clergyman, so he probably got into the leftovers of the sacramental wine from time to time. This one has a passage marked," Sam noted, opening another. "Oh, this is Brother Ansgar," he said, "I'll leave this one for Bobby to translate – German's a bit laborious for me."

Andrew pulled the book towards himself, and started to read. "Oh, wow," he breathed, "Poor old Brother Ansgar got a bit of a fright, did you know that female Old North wolves tend to give birth in wolf form?"

Sam looked up. "You can read it?"

Andrew nodded. "Thank Great Aunts Sadie and Dotsie," he answered. "Keepers of ze family connection to Ze Old Country. Even though they were both born in North Dakota. Sounds like this guy might've been the real deal. Heh heh, sounds like Liesl was a big girl..."

He translated aloud, and both of them laughed at the monk's observations.

"Erwin the blacksmith better watch out," grinned Sam.

"I wonder how tall Brother Ernest was?" Andrew commented. "Hey, he says here, the baby can be born looking human, or in its wolf form, but he doesn't know why." He scanned ahead, and his face drained of colour.

"Andrew?" prompted Sam, "Is something wrong?"

The sound of Bobby's truck and the Impala pulling into the yard had Andrew on his feet and headed out. Sam shook his head, and grinned to himself. He wanted to be there to give Dean a hard time about getting stuck. He took a moment to enjoy a warm moment of anticipation of teasing, put a delightfully sunny smile on his face, and went to mess with his brother.

The scene that greeted him was not quite what he expected.

Bobby was getting out of his truck, and laughing like a loon.

An attentive Dean was helping Ronnie out of the Impala. She was in her wolf form, which must've been uncomfortable, and Dean hovered like he was in full-on mother-hen mode, but she seemed entirely focused on the towel wrapped bundle she held carefully against her body.

It was at that point that he tripped over Andrew. Dean later did some teasing of his own, asking if Sam was going blind, because you'd have to be blind to trip over seven-plus feet of werewolf lying directly in front of you.

It wasn't a situation he ever anticipated encountering again, but you never knew, and Sam liked to be prepared, so he did check later, but unfortunately, Brother Ansgar had nothing to say about appropriate first aid for fainted werewolves.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's kinda domestic, isn't it?" grinned Bobby. Ronnie and Andrew were curled together on a blanket on the living room floor, their pup between them. Andrew was transfixed by the tiny thing, constantly nuzzling and licking at it, alternating between making soft, high pitched noises that none of them would ever have thought a male werewolf could utter, and low, contented rumbling. For his part, baby Jaeger seemed content to snuggle against his sire, while Ronnie dozed. "I should go get the camera."

"And we finally found out what Lita was up to," smiled Sam. As soon as she'd laid eyes on Ronnie, the female pup had left her brother Lars and trotted directly to her and barked sharply. The Winchesters had laughed out loud as Ronnie had blinked tiredly in bemusement at the little dog, whose meaning was clear. _Where have you been? I have been waiting! I have been looking! _But Ronnie had knelt to offer a friendly greeting, whuffing with affection and welcome. Lita was curled up against her, having nosed affectionately at the new pup, and was, finally, content.

"How long will they stay like this?" asked Sam, as Bobby scanned the German monk's writings.

"There's no indication here," he shrugged, "But I'd guess, at least tonight. They'll probably want to head off as soon as possible now that Junior has arrived – the instinct to den will be strong."

"What are they going to call him?" Sam continued.

"They've been calling him Zeck," Dean supplied.

Bobby frowned. "The tick? That's just the kind of nickname I'd expect these idjits to give an unborn kid, but it's not his name. You just don't name your kid after an insect."

"Zeck is kinda cool," Dean countered. "So is Mantis. Stinkbug, maybe not. Ladybug, totally gay."

"People have named their kids after weirder things," Sam pointed out, "After fruit, or days of the week, after cartoon characters, and let's not forget Dweezil and Moonunit Zappa."

"Well, we can ask 'em when they're feelin' more human," Bobby ended the discussion, "And after we've all had some sleep. It's half past zero dark hundred, and I am ready to hit the hay. No thanks to you," he added, shooting a rueful grin at Lita. The pup stared back, then yawned hugely, and settled against her newly chosen Alpha's hind leg again with a contented humphing noise.

Lars and Lemmy made their own puppy pile on their blanket, and were snoring gently by the time the Winchesters turned in.

"So, what was it like?" Sam asked.

"Terrible," groaned Dean, "She went in up to the axle, what with all the rain we've had in the last few days, and..."

"No, no, no!" huffed Sam irritably, with a shot of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "You were there while Ronnie had her... baby? Pup? Cub? I don't even know what to call it. Him. But you were right there! What was it like?"

Dean considered the question. "It was loud," he answered finally.

"Loud?" echoed Sam, looking confused.

"Loud," confirmed Dean, "You'd have thought someone was cutting her legs off. It was loud, and it was messy. And destructive. I did what I could, but there are some nicks in the back seat. And I'll need to clean the upholstery with one of those steam cleaning things, there was this... stuff. It was gloopy. It was all totally disgusting. I thought I was going to throw up. So, yeah, loud, messy, disgusting, gloopy, and... wonderful."

"You have such a way with words," Sam snorted in amusement, "It's amazing you never became a writer."

"He's kind of cute," Dean said, "Given that one day he'll be a monster who can disembowel things and flip small cars when he gets annoyed. Especially if he takes after his dad."

"I dunno," mused Sam, "Dad said you were cute, but look how you turned out."

"I turned out awesome," Dean declared.

"Yeah, yeah, and modest, too," Sam huffed. "Good night, Dr Spock." He switched off the lamp, and they settled for sleep.

"Dean?" came Sam's tentative voice in the darkness.

"Hmmmmm?" mumbled his big brother.

"Did you ever wonder what it would be like?"

"No, Sam, can't say I've spent too many nights lying awake and thinking 'Gee, what I really need, to make my life complete, is to witness the extrusion of a baby werewolf all over the back seat of my car, whilst simultaneously having my eardrums ruptured..."

"Not that!" Dean grinned, imagining the scowl on Sam's face, "Having kids, I mean."

"Cas says that I do," Dean reminded his brother, "Remember when he decided to get a hobby, which turned out to be trying to calculate how many kids I probably have? Using his scientific method? What possessed you to help him set up a laptop, I'll never know."

"No," Sam's bitchface was practically audible. "I mean, having kids, and raising them. Jess wanted kids," he went on quietly. "I was terrified when she mentioned it. I mean, I wanted that, too, but, I guess I was like Andrew, I was worried about whether I'd make a good dad. He was so worried, but then he was...besotted on sight."

"You'd have made an awesome dad, Sam," Dean told him. "You'd have done all the right dad things, reading story books, and teaching 'em to read. If you had a daughter, you could've let her play Hairdressers with all that Sasquatch fur, and if you had a son, you could've, I don't know, taught him to be a female impersonator, and then given him The Talk when he was in Grade School and freaked him out by using all the correct anatomical terms because God knows the last thing any guy that age wants is to hear his Dad say 'genitals', 'intercourse' or 'vagina'..."

"Jerk," humphed Sam, as Dean mentally chalked up a point to himself. "So, you really never wondered?"

"Nope," lied Dean, "Not any point in our line of work. But if I had, I'd have been okay at it. I'd've done The Talk better than you, and my kid would've had proper haircuts, and turned out better adjusted than yours on account of not being exposed to sideburns at a young age... what?" Sam was laughing. "What's so damned funny?"

"I don't know what sort of a dad you would've made," Sam told him, "But at raising a kid, you were awesome."

Dean paused at that. "I was, wasn't I?" he smiled. "Go to sleep, bitch."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Ronnie and Andrew were human again the next morning, and so was their son. Andrew still had hold of him, and seemed to be managing to do everything without putting the baby down.

"So is this a werewolf thing?" Dean asked. "Once she's given birth, the female super-glues the kid to the male, so she can go meet up with her galpals, go out and sniff some butt, get her nails done, hit the gym to get back her pre-baby body then eat her own body weight in all the good stuff she hasn't been allowed to have?"

"Well, I do want to spend some quality time getting to know my toes again," Ronnie shrugged, "And revelling in the feeling of seizing control of my own bladder once more."

"I think it's just more of a new dad thing," Bobby smiled.

"So, what's his name?" asked Sam.

"This is Connor Dean," Andrew told them, not taking his eyes off the baby.

"Connor, for Andrew's brother," Ronnie explained, "And Dean..."

"Awwww, you named him after me!" chirped Dean.

"...For his grandfather," Ronnie scowled at him. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Well, I'm going to call him Zeck," Dean stated.

"No you're not," Ronnie countered, "You got to name Lita. You do not get to name my kid." Hearing her name, the pup whuffed, and put a paw on Ronnie's leg. "What you're doing picking me, I don't know," she told the little dog, "I won't be doing any Hunting for a while."

"Actually, wolves hunt whilst in whelp, up until they give birth, and can participate in the hunt very soon afterwards, provided another pack member is present to watch the pups," Sam informed them. "So, maybe werewolves can get back to, uh, killing stuff relatively quickly."

"Yeah?" Ronnie's eyebrows rose. "I guess it would be good for regaining your figure, all that running around."

"Provided you moderate your intake of high-fat Americans," cautioned Dean. "Try to stick mostly to those Sudanese and Bangladeshi orphans. Americans are what we call a sometimes food."

Bobby muttered something about being surrounded by idjits as Ronnie and Andrew took their leave, discussing whether they'd need to put a baby carrier, or a dog crate, or maybe both, in the truck. Lita settled herself on Joni's old blanket, and as they left with a honk and a wave, she didn't even look back.

"Well, that's taken care of that," noted Bobby with a certain amount of satisfaction. "Now all I gotta do is get rid of these two idjits, and their idjits."

"Who are you calling idjits?" demanded Dean.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me," Bobby amended contritely, "Now all I gotta do is get rid of these two adorable pups, and their idjits." He turned and headed back inside before Dean could squawk in complaint.

"It's time you idjits and your idjits were back on the road," he reiterated later, "You've had your grievin' and bondin' time, they have big shoes to fill, and it's time for them to start learnin' to live the life."

"I think I've found us a job, bro," Sam added, tapping at his laptop. "Could be a haunting, could be an angry spirit, but definitely warrants checking out."

"Where is it?" asked Dean.

"California," Sam replied, "And, get this, it's at... Polly's Perfect Pooches Canine Academy!" He typed some more. "And they have a puppy school course starting in a bit over a week."

"Puppy school, huh?" mused Dean, bending down to scritch Lemmy's ears. "It's been a while since we've been to the beach. And I'm betting these guys would love it." Lemmy panted happily, enjoying his Alpha's attention. "And who are we to turn down an opportunity to kill a fugly, and kick our little brothers' asses at the same time?"

"Er, I think you'll find that you guys are the ones who get your asses kicked," Sam grinned back. "We're the smart ones, remember?"

"Smart?" Dean rounded on his brother. "Smart? Your dog eats clickers, and you keep buying them. I don't call that particularly smart."

"He's learned Sit, Drop, Come, and Leave it, and we're working on doing the invisible thing on command," Sam retorted, "What has Lemmy learned? Oh yeah, Eat Those Socks, Tip Over That Garbage, Get Stuck Under That Furniture, and Set My Shorts On Fire..."

The bickering continued as they readied for departure, putting Jimi's old blanket across the Impala's back seat, and laying in a stock of towels in readiness for any carsickness that manifested as a Level Two Event or above.

"Hey! Hey! Knock it off back there!" Dean turned and swatted at the pups, who were yapping and rassling in excitement at being in the car. "This is not a wrestling ring or a mosh pit! Sit down!"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" grinned Bobby, who'd come out to see them off. He held up the blue squeaky pig that had been Jimi's favourite toy.

"Oh no! We nearly forgot Oinker Stoinker!" exclaimed Sam, "Thanks Bobby. Hey, guys, who's this? Who's this?" He jiggled and honked it for the puppies. They grabbed an end each, and flopped down on the blanket, chewing contentedly.

"Look after those two for me," Bobby instructed the puppies. "Take care, boys."

They promised they would, then the Impala rumbled out of the yard.

He shook his head, muttering "Idjits," and went back inside. Lita had found her Hunter, Wolf Junior had arrived safely, his boys were back on the job with their pups, Cas was in his Heaven, and all was as right with the world as it ever got. Now he'd have some peace and quiet to get on with some work in the yard, some of his research projects, and maybe combing Brother Ansgar's writings for any more useful information.

But the first thing, the _very_ first thing, he worked on, was going to be a Hellhound-proof bacon storer.

_**THE END**_

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><p>*Squelch* and so we say goodbye to Kenneth, who has duly been stomped, which is the way of things for plot bunnies. I don't know if Dean and Sam have really been traumatised enough to warrant calling in the DDD; we might need a different sort of special bonus feature.<p>

Reviews are the Puppy Cuddles On The Sofa Of Life (With The Winchester Of Your Choice* Bringing You Chocolate**)

*Winchester involvement is optional#  
>** A preferred confectionery or foodstuff may be substituted for chocolate<br># If you must put the chocolate _on_ the Winchester, please put a towel down on the sofa first


	12. Special Bonus Feature!

**Brains, Brawn, Beauty & Rumsfeld: SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE!**

...Set somewhere in an alternative reality, which bears a remarkable resemblance to our own, except for one or two interesting features...

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><p><em>Darkness. Creepy ambiance. Greasy, wispy mist swirls close to the floor. Lights come up from darkness to murky dimness. <em>

*A woman walks through the vast echoing space, looking about her in confusion*

**Sera:** Hello? Helloooooo?

*She taps at her phone, then puts it back in a pocket*

**Sera:** Hello? Anybody here?

*Another figure strolls casually out of the gloom. She peers at him*

**Sera: **Mark? Oh, thank God, what's going on? If this is one of Jensen's pranks, I will tear him a new one...

**Crowley:** No, no, it's all right, love, it's not a prank, you're just in Hell, that's all.

**Sera (blinking):** I'm... where? *looks around* What's wrong with the lighting? Have we had a brown-out again? *She sniffs* Oh, what is that smell? Jared! Jared, is that you? It's not funny, Jared!

**Crowley:** It's the Hellhounds, I'm afraid. They get excited when they scent new blood. Perhaps I can explain...

**Sera: **You'd better start explaining. I'd expect collaboration from Misha, but I expected better from you. Oh, that is rank. I'm going to get a stepladder and knock their heads together for this. I'm gonna feed you charcoal biscuits, moose-man!

**Crowley: **Look, you really need to back up a bit, and just look around you. You are in Hell, Ms Gamble – that sounds so formal, may I call you Sera? – you are in Hell, Sera.

**Sera (looking around again):** But... I don't understand. *Scratches head* How did I get here?

**Crowley:** Well, what's the last thing you remember?

**Sera (frowning in thought):** I was reading some scripting ideas for next season, just making some notes, and... and... I had the pen...

**Crowley:** And you tragically accidentally inhaled the lid, and choked. My insincere condolences.

**Sera: **But... how did I get here?

**Crowley:** By dying, love.

**Sera: **No, what I mean is, how did I end up here? If this is Hell. Why am I in Hell?

**Crowley:** Well, why do people get sent to Hell?

**Sera: **The wicked are sent to Hell, to be punished for their sins.

**Crowley:** Right, right, but who decides that? How do you know who goes to Hell?

**Sera: **Well, the wicked, the sinful...

**Crowley: **And who decides that somebody is wicked, hmmmmm?

**Sera:** Well, God, I suppose.

**Crowley: **And how do you know that? How do you know what God thinks is sinful?

**Sera:** Uh, it's in the Bible.

**Crowley: **That's right! Gold star for you. Now, this is the crucial question: who wrote the Bible?

**Sera (blinking in uncertainty):** Um, well, I think the four Gospels were written by four of the disciples, and Paul wrote his letters... I'm afraid I'm a bit fuzzier on the rest. Some people think Moses wrote some or all of the Old Testament, but it was largely a collation of oral tradition. It was probably a lot of people.

**Crowley:** Precisely! Elephant stamp for you. So, the Bible, which informs us about who will get sent to Hell, was written by a lot of different people, writing down their ideas and opinions about who should be sent to Hell!

**Sera:** But... what does that have to do with me?

**Crowley: **Look, this religion thing really isn't that mysterious. All you really need, in order to go to Hell, is for enough relatively decent people to fervently believe that it's where you deserve to go. R&D think it's a back-up system that Himself Upstairs designed as a failsafe, in case He wasn't always around to keep an eye on QA. Strangely enough, it works pretty well.

**Sera:** But doesn't that mean you get persecuted minorities who don't deserve to be here getting send to Hell? That's not fair!

**Crowley:** No, it doesn't work like that, love – bigots, racists, homophobes and serious religious loonies of any sort are so tainted, their opinions don't count. I told you, as bizarre and ad hoc as it sounds, usually, it just... works. Somehow. It's why we get the televangelists Down Here, but not their congregations.

**Sera:** Then what am_ I _doing here?

**Crowley: **Ah. Well. You can only be here if you made a deal, which I know you didn't, or you did something that was believed by a lot of people to be very very naughty indeed. Have you done something that might strike a lot of people as being very very naughty, Sera, hmmmm? Anything just a teeny weeny bit evil? Something to cheese off the devoted fans, possibly? Ringing any bells here?

**Sera (looking guilty):** Er...

**Crowley: **Well, now that you're here, we should get on with your induction. Hello, I am Crowley, King of Hell. Welcome to your Damnation. This is Orgle, and he will show you to your Eternal Torment.

**Orgle (smiling):** Hello, I am Orgle, and it is my pleasure to be your guide fiend today.

*Sera's eyes bug and she lets out an ear-splitting scream of terror*

**Orgle: **Please follow me. If you look to your right, you will see a group of dishonest financiers being dropped into a vat of molten gold.

**Sera: **Aaaaaaaaaargh!

**Orgle:** If you look to your left, you will see a group of child molesters, queued up in front of that little guillotine. You can always tell them, because the red hot pokers make them walk funny.

**Sera:** AAAAAAAAARGH!

**Orgle:** Up ahead, you will notice some cheating husbands.

**Sera (stupefied):** But... but... I don't get that, it's just a row of men on sofas, with bottles of scotch in their hands, and attractive young women sitting in their laps...

**Orgle:** If you looked closely, you would see that there are holes in all the bottles, but none in any of the women. Now, here is your desk, *he indicates a desk* Here is your computer *he indicates the dusty, elderly HP machine with phosphor screen* Unfortunately the E key and the S key don't work, you'll have to fill them in by hand afterwards, and it's stuck on all capitals, but I'm sure you'll manage, it runs WordPerfect of course, here is your printer, the ribbon is a bit old and it only prints the top half of each line of text, but you can fill the rest in while you're writing in the Es and Ss, and this is your PI, his name is...

**Sera: **What's a PI?

**Orgle: **Your Personal Imp. His name is Phlegmgob, and he will keep you supplied with damp crumpled paper, damaged storage tapes, stale broken Oreos and half-strength International Roast Caterer's Blend coffee, served at precisely 70.4 degrees F. *Phlegmgob waves shyly*. Now, this is the list of scripts you are expected to write...

**Sera (scanning list):** 'The Bachelorette – Nursing Home Naughtiness'? 'Keeping Up With The Kardashians' Gynaecologists'? 'Pimp My Septic Tank'? 'Home Cooking: Cannibalism For Beginners'? 'Star Wars Holiday Special 2'? 'Star Wars Holiday Special 3'?

**Orgle:** And this is the pile of scripts you are expected to review. Back it up, Vorz!

*Another fiend carefully backs a tip truck up to the desk, and deposits a mountain of paper. Sera carefully picks up one several hundred pages thick, and reads the cover.*

**Sera:** 'Battlefield Earth: The Mime Edition'?

**Orgle:** Sounds exciting, doesn't it? Vorz will deliver your scripts for review regularly. Oh, I nearly forgot, you're due in meeting room 666 in an hour for the first round of auditions.

**Sera (gulping): **Auditions?

**Orgle:** Yes, auditions. You'd be amazed at just how many demons want to star in a pornographic production, so we thought that since you're a professional, we'd get you to oversee the project. Of course, they are demons, so they may well poke you with pointy sticks. At least, if you're lucky, it's pointy sticks they'll use to poke you. Well, I'll leave you to get settled in. Thank you for patronising Hell, number one service provider for all your Infernal needs. We Scare Because We Care.

**Sera (wailing in horror):** Noooooooooooooooooo!

_**FIN**_

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><p>Technically this chapter is A Bit Naughty; FFN fics are not supposed to use real (i.e. not made up characters) people in stories, so I might have to take it down shortly, but I hope you can get a bit of a giggle whilst it's here... seriously, I will never forgive That Gamble Woman for blowing up Singer Salvage or disposing of Bobby.<p>

Reviews fatten the other plot bunnies!


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